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diff --git a/8879-0.txt b/8879-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ba483b --- /dev/null +++ b/8879-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18817 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of There and Back, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: There and Back + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8879] +This file was first posted on August 19, 2003 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THERE AND BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +THERE & BACK + +By George Macdonald + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAP. + + I. FATHER, CHILD, AND NURSE + II. STEPMOTHER AND NURSE + III. THE FLIGHT + IV. THE BOOKBINDER AND HIS PUPIL + V. THE MANSONS + VI. SIMON ARMOUR + VII. COMPARISONS + VIII. A LOST SHOE + IX. A HOLIDAY + X. THE LIBRARY + XI. ALICE + XII. MORTGRANGE + XIII. THE BEECH-TREE + XIV. AGAIN THE LIBRARY + XV. BARBARA WYLDER + XVI. BARBARA AND RICHARD + XVII. BARBARA AND OTHERS + XVIII. MRS. WYLDER + XIX. MRS. WYLDER AND BARBARA + XX. BARBARA AND HER CRITICS + XXI. THE PARSON'S PARABLE + XXII. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER + XXIII. A HUMAN GADFLY + XXIV. RICHARD AND WINGFOLD + XXV. WINGFOLD AND HIS WIFE + XXVI. RICHARD AND ALICE + XXVII. A SISTER + XXVIII. BARBARA AND LADY ANN + XXIX. ALICE AND BARBARA + XXX. BARBARA THINKS + XXXI. WINGFOLD AND BARBARA + XXXII. THE SHOEING OF MISS BROWN + XXXIII. RICHARD AND VIXEN + XXXIV. BARBARA'S DUTY + XXXV. THE PARSON'S COUNSEL + XXXVI. LADY ANN MEDITATES + XXXVII. LADY ANN AND RICHARD + XXXVIII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR + XXXIX. MR., MRS., AND MISS WYLDER + XL. IN LONDON + XLI. NATURE AND SUPERNATURE + XLII. YET A LOWER DEEP + XLIII. TO BE REDEEMED, ONE MUST REDEEM + XLIV. A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN + XLV. THE CARRIAGE + XLVI. RICHARD'S DILEMMA + XLVII. THE DOORS OF HARMONY AND DEATH + XLVIII. DEATH THE DELIVERER + XLIX. THE CAVE IN THE FIRE + L. DUCK-FISTS + LI. BARONET AND BLACKSMITH + LII. UNCLE-FATHER AND AUNT-MOTHER + LIII. MORNING + LIV. BARBARA AT HOME + LV. MISS BROWN + LVI. WINGFOLD AND BARBARA + LVII. THE BARONET'S WILL + LVIII. THE HEIR + LIX. WINGFOLD AND ARTHUR MANSON + LX. RICHARD AND HIS FAMILY + LXI. HEART TO HEART + LXII. THE QUARREL + LXIII. BARONET AND BLACKSMITH + LXIV. THE BARONET'S FUNERAL + LXV. THE PACKET + LXVI. BARBARA'S DREAM + + + + +_NOTE._ + +_Some of the readers of this tale will be glad to know that the passage +with which it ends is a real dream; and that, with but three or four +changes almost too slight to require acknowledging, I have given it word +for word as the friend to whom it came set it down for me._ + + + + +CHAPTER I. _FATHER, CHILD, AND NURSE._ + +It would be but stirring a muddy pool to inquire--not what motives +induced, but what forces compelled sir Wilton Lestrange to marry a woman +nobody knew. It is enough to say that these forces were mainly ignoble, +as manifested by their intermittent character and final cessation. +The _mésalliance_ occasioned not a little surprise, and quite as much +annoyance, among the county families,--failing, however, to remind any +that certain of their own grandmothers had been no better known to the +small world than lady Lestrange. It caused yet more surprise, though +less annoyance, in the clubs to which sir Wilton had hitherto been +indebted for help to forget his duties: they set him down as a greater +idiot than his friends had hitherto imagined him. For had he not been +dragged to the altar by a woman whose manners and breeding were hardly +on the level of a villa in St. John's Wood? Did any one know whence she +sprang, or even the name which sir Wilton had displaced with his own? +But sir Wilton himself was not proud of his lady; and if the thing had +been any business of theirs, it would have made no difference to him; he +would none the less have let them pine in their ignorance. Did not his +mother, a lady less dignified than eccentric, out of pure curiosity beg +enlightenment concerning her origin, and receive for answer from the +high-minded baronet, “Madam, the woman is my wife!”--after which the +prudent dowager asked no more questions, but treated her daughter-in-law +with neither better nor worse than civility. Sir Wilton, in fact, soon +came to owe his wife a grudge that he had married her, and none the +less that at the time he felt himself of a generosity more than human in +bestowing upon her his name. Creation itself, had he ever thought of it, +would have seemed to him a small thing beside such a gift! + +That Robina Armour, after experience of his first advances, should have +at last consented to marry sir Wilton Lestrange, was in no sense in her +favour, although after a fashion she was in love with him--in love, that +is, with the gentleman of her own imagining whom she saw in the baronet; +while the baronet, on his part, was what he called in love with what he +called _the woman_. As he was overcome by her beauty, so was she by +his rank--an idol at whose clay feet is cast many a spiritual +birthright--and as mean a deity as any of man's device. But the +blacksmith's daughter was in many respects, notwithstanding, a woman +of good sense, with much real refinement, and a genuine regard for +rectitude. Although sir Wilton had never loved her with what was best +in him, it was not in spite of what was best in him that he fell in love +with her. Had his better nature been awake, it would have justified the +bond, and been strengthened by it. + +Lady Lestrange's father was a good blacksmith, occasionally drunk in +his youth, but persistently sober now in his middle age; a long-headed +fellow, with reach and quality in the prudence which had long ceased to +appear to him the highest of virtues. At one period he had accounted it +the prime duty of existence to take care of oneself; and so much of this +belief had he communicated to his younger daughter, that she deported +herself so that sir Wilton married her--with the result that, when Death +knocked at her door, she welcomed him to her heart. The first cry of her +child, it is true, made her recall the welcome, but she had to go with +him, notwithstanding, when the child was but an hour old. + +Not one of her husband's family was in the house when she died. Sir +Wilton himself was in town, and had been for the last six months, +preferring London and his club to Mortgrange and his wife. When a +telegram informed him that she was in danger, he did go home, but when +he arrived, she had been an hour gone, and he congratulated himself that +he had taken the second train. + +There had been betwixt them no approach to union. When what sir Wilton +called love had evaporated, he returned to his mire, with a resentful +feeling that the handsome woman--his superior in everything that belongs +to humanity--had bewitched him to his undoing. The truth was, she had +ceased to charm him. The fault was not in her; it lay in the dulled eye +of the swiftly deteriorating man, which grew less and less capable +of seeing things as they were, and transmitted falser and falser +impressions of them. The light that was in him was darkness. The woman +that might have made a man of him, had there been the stuff, passed from +him an unprized gift, a thing to which he made Hades welcome. + +It was decent, however, not to parade his relief. He retired to the +library, lit a cigar, and sat down to wish the unpleasant fuss of the +funeral over, and the house rid of a disagreeable presence. Had the +woman died of a disease to which he might himself one day have to +succumb, her death might, as he sat there, have chanced to raise for an +instant the watery ghost of an emotion; but, coming as it did, he had no +sympathetic interest in her death any more than in herself. Lolling in +the easiest of chairs, he revolved the turns of last night's play, until +it occurred to him that he might soon by a second marriage take amends +of his neighbours for their disapprobation of his first. So pleasant was +the thought that, brooding upon it, he fell asleep. + +He woke, looked, rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and stared. +A woman stood in front of him--one he had surely seen!--no, he had never +seen her anywhere! What an odd, inquiring, searching expression in her +two hideous black eyes! And what was that in her arms--something wrapt +in a blanket? + +The message in the telegram recurred to him: there must have been a +child! The bundle must be the child! Confound the creature! What did it +want? + +“Go away,” he said; “this is not the nursery!” + +“I thought you might like to look at the baby, sir!” the woman replied. + +Sir Wilton stared at the blanket. + +“It might comfort you, I thought!” she went on, with a look he felt +to be strange. Her eyes were hard and dry, red with recent tears, and +glowing with suppressed fire. + +Sir Wilton was courteous to most women, especially such as had no claim +upon him, but cherished respect for none. It was odd therefore that +he should now feel embarrassed. From some cause the machinery of his +self-content had possibly got out of gear; anyhow no answer came ready. +He had not the smallest wish to see the child, but was yet, perhaps, +unwilling to appear brutal. In the meantime, the woman, with gentle, +moth-like touch, was parting and turning back the folds of the +blanket, until from behind it dawned a tiny human face, whose angel was +suppliant, it may be, for the baptism of a father's first gaze. + +The woman held out the child to sir Wilton, as if expecting him to take +it. He started to his feet, driving the chair a yard behind him, stuck +his hands in his pockets, and, with a face of disgust, cried-- + +“Great God! take the creature away.” + +But he could not lift his eyes from the face nested in the blanket. It +seemed to fascinate him. The woman's eyes flared, but she did not speak. + +“Uglier than sin!” he half hissed, half growled. “--I suppose the animal +is mine, but you needn't bring it so close to me! Take it away--and keep +it away. I will send for it when I want it--which won't be in a hurry! +My God! How hideous a thing may be, and yet human!” + +“He is as God made him!” remarked the nurse, quietly for very wrath. + +“Or the devil!” suggested his father. + +Then the woman looked like a tigress. She opened her mouth, but closed +it again with a snap. + +“I may say what I like of my own!” said the father. “Tell me the goblin +is none of mine, and I will be as respectful to him as you please. Prove +it, and I will give you fifty pounds. He's hideous! He's damnably ugly! +Deny it if you can.” + +The woman held her peace. She could not, even to herself, call him a +child pleasant to look at. She gazed on him for a moment with pitiful, +protective eyes, then covered his face as if he were dead, but she did +not move. + +“Why don't you go?” said the baronet. + +Instead of replying, she began, as by a suddenly confirmed resolve, +to remove the coverings at the other end of the bundle, and presently +disclosed the baby's feet. The baronet gazed wondering. To what might +not assurance be about to subject him? She took one of the little feet +in a hard but gentle hand, and spreading out “the pink, five-beaded +baby-toes,” displayed what even the inexperience of the baronet +could not but recognize as remarkable: between every pair of toes was +stretched a thin delicate membrane. She laid the foot down, took up the +other, and showed the same peculiarity. The child was web-footed, as +distinctly as any properly constituted duckling! Then she lifted, one +after the other, the tiny hands, beautiful to any eye that understood, +and showed between the middle and third finger of each, the same sort of +membrane rising half-way to the points of them. + +“I see!” said the baronet, with a laugh that was not nice, having in it +no merriment, “the creature is a monster!--Well, if you think I am to +blame, I can only protest you are mistaken. _I_ am not web-footed! The +duckness must come from the other side.” + +“I hope you will remember, sir Wilton!” + +“Remember? What do you mean? Take the monster away.” + +The woman rearranged the coverings of the little crooked legs. + +“Won't you look at your lady before they put her in her coffin?” she +said when she had done. + +“What good would that do her? She's past caring!--No, I won't: why +should I? Such sights are not pleasant.” + +“The coffin's a lonely chamber, sir Wilton; lonely to lie all day and +all night in!” + +“No lonelier for one than for another!” he replied, with an involuntary +recoil from his own words. For the one thing a man must believe--yet +hardly believes--is, that he shall one day die. “She'll be better +without me, anyhow!” + +“You are heartless, sir Wilton!” + +“Mind your own business. If I choose to be heartless, I may have my +reasons. Take the child away.” + +Still she did not move. The baby, young as he was, had thrown the +blanket from his face, and the father's eyes were fixed on it: while he +gazed the nurse would not stir. He seemed fascinated by its ugliness. +Without absolute deformity, the child was indeed as unsightly as infant +well could be. + +“My God!” he said again--for he had a trick of crying out as if he had +a God--“the little brute hates me! Take it away, woman. Take it away +before I strangle it! I can't answer for myself if it keeps on looking +at me!” + +With a glance whose mingled anger and scorn the father did not see, the +nurse turned and went. + +He kept staring after her till the door shut, then fell back into his +chair, exclaiming once more, “My God!”--What or whom he meant by the +word, it were hard to say. + +“Is it possible,” he said to himself, “that the fine woman I +married--for she _was_ a fine woman, a deuced fine woman!--should have +died to present the world with such a travesty! It's like nothing human! +It's an affront to the family! Ah! the strain _will_ show! They say your +sins will find you out! It was a sin to marry the woman! Damned fool I +was! But she bewitched me! I _was_ bewitched!--Curse the little monster! +I shan't breathe again till I'm out of the house! Where was the doctor? +He ought to have seen to it! Hang it all, I'll go abroad!” + +Ugly as the child was, however, to many an eye the first thing evident +in him would have been his strong likeness to his father--whose +features were perfect, though at the moment, and at many a moment, their +expression was other than attractive. Sir Wilton disliked children, +and the dislike was mutual. Never did child run to him; never was child +unwilling to leave him. Escaping from his grasp, he would turn and look +back, like Christian emerging from the Valley of the Shadow, as if to +weigh the peril he had been in. + +As tenderly as if he had been the loveliest of God's children, the woman +bore her charge up staircases, and through corridors and passages, to +the remote nursery, where, in a cradle whose gay furniture contrasted +sadly with the countenance of the child and the fierceness of her +own eyes, she gently laid him down. But long after he was asleep, she +continued to bend over him, as if with difficulty restraining herself +from clasping him again to her bosom. + +Jane Tuke had been married four or five years, but had no children, and +the lack seemed to have intensified her maternity. Elder sister to lady +Lestrange, she had gone gladly to receive her child in her arms, and had +watched and waited for it with an expectation far stronger than that of +the mother; for so thorough was lady Lestrange's disappointment in +her husband, that she regarded the advent of his child almost with +indifference. Jane had an absolute passion for children. She had married +a quarter for faith, a quarter for love, and a whole half for hope. This +divinely inexplicable child-passion is as unintelligible to those +devoid of it, as its absence is marvellous to those possessed by it. Its +presence is its justification, its being its sole explanation, itself +its highest reason. Surely on those who cherish it, the shadow of the +love-creative God must rest more than on some other women! Unpleasing as +was the infant, to know him her own would have made the world a paradise +to Jane. Her heart burned with divine indignation at the wrongs already +heaped upon him. Hardly born, he was persecuted! Ugly! he was _not_ +ugly! Was he not come straight from the fountain of life, from the +Father of children? That such a father as she had left in the library +should repudiate him was well! She loved to think of his rejection. +She brooded with delight, in the midst of her wrath, on every word of +disgust that had fallen from his unfatherly lips. The more her baby was +rejected, the more he was hers! He belonged to her, and her only, for +she only loved him! She could say with _France_ in _King Lear_, “Be +it lawful I take up what's cast away!” To her the despised one was the +essence of all riches. The joy of a miser is less than the joy of a +mother, as gold is less than a live soul, as greed is less than love. +No vision of jewels ever gave such a longing as this woman longed with +after the child of her dead sister. + +The body that bore was laid in the earth, the thing born was left upon +it. The mother had but come, exposed her infant on the rough shore +of time, and forsaken him in his nakedness. There he lay, not knowing +whence he came, or whither he was going, urged to live by a hunger +and thirst he had not invented, and did not understand. His mother had +helplessly forsaken him, but the God in another woman had taken him up: +there was a soul to love him, two arms to carry him, and a strong heart +to shelter him. + +Sir Wilton returned to London, and there enjoyed himself--not much, +but a little the more that no woman sat at Mortgrange with a right to +complain that he took his pleasure without her. He lived the life of the +human animals frequenting the society of their kind from a gregarious +instinct, and for common yet opposing self-ends. He had begun to assume +the staidness, if not dullness, of the animal whose first youth has +departed, but he was only less frolicsome, not more human. He was +settling down to what he had made himself; no virtue could claim a share +in the diminished rampancy of his vices. What a society is that which +will regard as reformed the man whom assuaging fires have left an +exhausted slag--a thing for which as yet no use is known, who suggests +no promise of change or growth, gives no poorest hint of hope concerning +his fate! + +With the first unrecognized sense of approaching age, a certain habit +of his race began to affect him, and the idea of a quieter life, with a +woman whose possession would make him envied, grew mildly attractive. A +brilliant marriage in another county would, besides, avenge him on +the narrow-minded of his own, who had despised his first choice! With +judicial family-eye he surveyed the eligible women of his acquaintance. +It was, no doubt, to his disadvantage that already an heir lay “mewling +and puking in the nurse's arms;” for a woman who might willingly be +mother to the inheritor of such a property as his, might not find +attractive the notion of her first being her husband's second son. But +slips between cups and lips were not always on the wrong side! Such +a moon-calf as Robina's son could not with justice represent the +handsomest man and one of the handsomest women of their time. The heir +that fate had palmed upon him might very well be doomed to go the way so +many infants went! + +He spread the report that the boy was sickly. A notion that he was not +likely to live prevailed about Mortgrange, which, however originated, +was nourished doubtless by the fact that he was so seldom seen. In +reality, however, there was not a healthier child in all England than +Richard Lestrange. + +Sir Wilton's relations took as little interest in the heir as himself, +and there was no inducement for any of them to visit Mortgrange; the +aunt-mother, therefore, had her own way with him. She was not liked in +the house. The servants said she cared only for the little toad of a +baronet, and would do nothing for her comfort. They had, however, just a +shadow of respect for her: if she encouraged no familiarity, she did not +meddle, and was independent of their aid. Even the milking of the cow +which had been, through her persistence, set apart for the child, she +did herself. She sought no influence in the house, and was nothing loved +and little heeded. + +Sir Wilton had not again seen his heir, who was now almost a year old, +when the rumour reached Mortgrange that the baronet was about to be +married. + +Naturally, the news was disquieting to Jane. The hope, however, was left +her, that the stepmother might care as little for the child as did the +father, and that so, for some years at least, he might be left to her. +It was a terrible thought to the loving woman that they might be parted; +a more terrible thought that her baby might become a man like his +father. Of all horrors to a decent woman, a bad man must be the worst! +If by her death she could have left the child her hatred of evil, Jane +would have willingly died: she loved her husband, but her sister's boy +was in danger! + + + + +CHAPTER II. _STEPMOTHER AND NURSE._ + +The rumour of sir Wilton's marriage was, as rumour seldom is, correct. +Before the year was out, lady Ann Hardy, sister to the earl of Torpavy, +representing an old family with a drop or two of very bad blood in +it, became lady Ann Lestrange How much love there may have been in the +affair, it is unnecessary to inquire, seeing the baronet was what he +was, and the lady understood the _what_ pretty well. She might have +preferred a husband not so much what sir Wilton was, but she was +nine-and-twenty, and her brother was poor. She said to herself, I +suppose, that she might as well as another undertake his reform: some +one must! and married him. She had not much of a trousseau, but was +gorgeously attired for the wedding. It is true she had to return to the +earl three-fourths of the jewels she wore; but they were family jewels, +and why should she not have some good of them? She started with fifty +pounds of her own in her pocket, and a demeanour in her person equal +to fifty millions. When they arrived at Mortgrange, the moon was indeed +still in the sky, but the honey-pot, to judge by the appearance of the +twain, was empty: twain they were, and twain would be. The man wore a +look of careless all-rightness, tinged with an expression of indifferent +triumph: he had what he wanted; what his lady might think of her side +of the bargain, he neither thought nor cared. As to the woman, let her +reflections be what they might, not a soul would come to the knowledge +of them. Whatever it was to others, her pale, handsome face was never +false to herself, never betrayed what she was thinking, never broke +the shallow surface of its frozen dignity. Will any man ever know how a +woman of ordinary decency feels after selling herself? I find the thing +hardly safe to ponder. No trace, no shadow of disappointment clouded the +countenance of lady Ann that sultry summer afternoon as she drove up the +treeless avenue. The education she had received--and education in +the worst sense it was! for it had brought out the worst in her--had +rendered her less than human. The form of her earthly presence had +been trained to a fashionable perfection; her nature had not been left +unaided in its reversion toward the vague animal type from which it was +developed: in the curve of her thin lips as they prepared to smile, +one could discern the veiled snarl and bite. Her eyes were grey, her +eyebrows dark; her complexion was a clear fair, her nose perfect, except +for a sharp pinch at the end of the bone; her nostrils were thin but +motionless; her chin was defective, and her throat as slender as +her horrible waist; her hands and feet were large even for “her tall +personage.” + +After his lady had had a cup of tea, sir Wilton, for something to +do, proposed taking her over the house, which was old, and worthy of +inspection. In their progress they came to a door at the end of a long +and rather tortuous passage. Sir Wilton did not know how the room was +occupied, or he would doubtless have passed it by; but as its windows +gave a fine view of the park, he opened the door, and lady Ann entered. +Sudden displeasure shortened her first step; pride or something worse +lengthened the next, as she bore down on a woman too much occupied with +a child on her knee to look up at the sound of her entrance. When, +a moment after, she did look up, the dreaded stepmother was looking +straight down on her baby. Their eyes encountered. Jane met an icy +stare, and lady Ann a gaze of defiance--an expression by this time +almost fixed on the face of the nurse, for in her spirit she heard every +unspoken remark on her child. Not a word did the lady utter, but to +Jane, her eyes, her very breath seemed to say with scorn, “Is _that_ the +heir?” Sir Wilton did not venture a single look: he was ashamed of his +son, and already a little afraid of his wife, whom he had once seen +close her rather large teeth in a notable way. As she turned toward the +window, however, he stole a glance at his offspring: the creature was +not quite so ugly as before--not quite so repulsive as he had pictured +him! But, good heavens! he was on the lap of the same woman whose +fierceness had upset him almost as much as his child's ugliness! He +walked to the window after his wife. She gazed for a moment, turned with +indifference, and left the room. Her husband followed her. A glance of +fear, dislike, and defiance, went after them from Jane. + +Stronger contrast than those two women it would be hard to find. Jane's +countenance was almost coarse, but its rugged outline was almost grand. +Her hair grew low down on her forehead, and she had deep-set eyes. Her +complexion was rough, her nose large and thick. Her mouth was large +also, but, when unaffected by her now almost habitual antagonism, the +curve of her lip was sweet, and occasionally humorous. Her chin was +strong, and the total of her face what we call masculine; but when +she silently regarded her child, it grew beautiful with the radiant +tenderness of protection. + +Her visitors left the door open behind them; Jane rose and shut it, +sat down again, and gazed motionless at the infant. Perhaps he vaguely +understood the sorrow and dread of her countenance, for he pulled a long +face of his own, and was about to cry. Jane clasped him to her bosom in +an agony: she felt certain she would not long be permitted to hold him +there. In the silent speech of my lady's mouth, her jealous love saw the +doom of her darling. What precise doom she dared not ask herself; it +was more than enough that she, indubitably his guardian as if sent from +heaven to shield him, must abandon him to his natural enemy, one who +looked upon him as the adversary of her own children. It was a thought +not to be thought, an idea for which there should be no place in her +bosom! Unfathomable as the love between man and woman is the love of +woman to child. + +She spent a wakeful night. From the decree of banishment sure to go +forth against her, there was no appeal! Go she must! Yet her heart cried +out that he was her own. In the same lap his mother had lain before him! +She had carried her by day, and at night folded her in the same arms, +herself but six years old--old enough to remember yet the richness +unspeakable of her new possession. Never had come difference betwixt +them until Robina began to give ear to sir Wilton, whom Jane could not +endure. When she responded, as she did at once, to her sister's cry for +her help, she made her promise that no one should understand who she +was, but that she should in the house be taken for and treated as a +hired nurse. Why Jane stipulated thus, it were hard to say, but so +careful were they both, that no one at Mortgrange suspected the nurse +as personally interested in the ugly heir left in her charge! No one +dreamed that the child's aunt had forsaken her husband to nurse him, and +was living _for_ him day and night. She, in her turn, had promised her +sister never to leave him, and this pledge strengthened the bond of +her passion. The only question was _how_ she was to be faithful to her +pledge, _how_ to carry matters when she was turned away. With those +thin, close-pressed lips in her mind's eye, she could not count on +remaining where she was beyond a few days. + +She was not only a woman capable of making up her mind, but a woman of +resource, with the advantage of having foreseen and often pondered the +possibility of that which was now imminent. The same night, silent above +the sleep of her darling, she sat at work with needle and scissors far +into the morning, remodelling an old print dress. For nights after, she +was similarly occupied, though not a scrap or sign of the labour was +visible in the morning. + +The crisis anticipated came within a fortnight. Lady Ann did not show +herself a second time in the nursery, but sending for Jane, informed her +that an experienced nurse was on her way from London to take charge +of the child, and her services would not be required after the next +morning. + +“For, of course,” concluded her ladyship, “I could not expect a woman of +your years to take an under-nurse's place!” + +“Please your ladyship, I will gladly,” said Jane, eager to avoid or at +least postpone the necessity forcing itself upon her. + +“I intend you to go--and _at once_,” replied her ladyship; “--that is, +the moment Mrs. Thornycroft arrives. The housekeeper will take care that +you have your month's wages in lieu of warning.” + +“Very well, my lady!--Please, your ladyship, when may I come and see the +child?” + +“Not at all. There is no necessity.” + +“Never, my lady?” + +“Decidedly.” + +“Then at least I may ask why you send me away so suddenly!” + +“I told you that I want a properly qualified nurse to take your place. +My wish is to have the child more immediately under my own eye than +would be agreeable if you kept your place. I hope I speak plainly!” + +“Quite, my lady.” + +“And let me, for your own sake, recommend you to behave more +respectfully when you find another place.” + +What she was doing lady Ann was incapable of knowing. A woman +love-brooding over a child is at the gate of heaven; to take her child +from her is to turn her away from more than paradise. + +Jane went in silence, seeming to accept the inevitable, too proud to +wipe away the tear whose rising she could not help--a tear not for +herself, nor yet for the child, but for the dead mother in whose place +she left such a woman. She walked slowly back to the nursery, where her +charge was asleep, closed the door, sat down by the cot, and sat for a +while without moving. Then her countenance began to change, and slowly +went on changing, until at last, as through a mist of troubled emotion, +out upon the strong, rugged face broke, with strange suggestion of a +sunset, the glow of resolve and justified desire. A maid more friendly +than the rest brought her some tea, but Jane said nothing of what had +occurred. When the child awoke, she fed him, and played with him a long +time--till he was thoroughly tired, when she undressed him, and laying +him down, set about preparing his evening meal. No one could have +perceived in her any difference, except indeed it were a subdued +excitement in her glowing eyes. When it was ready, she went to her box, +took from it a small bottle, and poured a few dark-coloured drops into +the food. + +“God forgive me! it's but this once!” she murmured. + +The child seemed not quite to relish his supper, but did not refuse it, +and was presently asleep in her arms. She laid him down, took a book, +and began to read. + + + + +CHAPTER III. _THE FLIGHT._ + +She read until every sound had died in the house, every sound from +garret to cellar, except the ticking of clock, and the tinkling cracks +of sinking fires and cooling grates. In the regnant silence she rose, +laid aside her book, softly opened the door, and stepped as softly into +the narrow passage. A moment or two she listened, then stole on tiptoe +to the main corridor, and again listened. She went next to the head of +the great stair, and once more stood and listened. Then she crept +down to the drawing-room, saw that there was no light in the library, +billiard-room, or smoking-room, and with stealthy feet returned to +the nursery. There she closed the door she had left open, and took the +child. He lay in her arms like one dead. She removed everything he wore, +and dressed him in the garments which for the last fortnight she had +been making for him from clothes of her own. When she had done, he +looked like any cottager's child; there was nothing in his face to +contradict his attire. She regarded the result for a moment with a +triumph of satisfaction, laid him down, and proceeded to put away the +clothes he had worn. + +Over the top of the door was a small cupboard in the wall, into which +she had never looked until the day before, when she opened it and found +it empty. She placed a table under it, and a chair on the table, climbed +up, laid in it everything she had taken off the child, locked the door +of it, put the key in her pocket, and got down. Then she took the cloak +and hood he had hitherto worn out of doors, laid them down beside +the wardrobe, and lifting the end of it with a strength worthy of the +blacksmith's daughter, pushed them with her foot into the hollow between +the bottom of the wardrobe and the floor of the room. This done, she +looked at the timepiece on the mantelshelf, saw it was one o'clock, +and sat down to recover her breath. But the next moment she was on her +knees, sobbing. By and by she rose, wiped the hot tears from her eyes, +and went carefully about the room, gathering up this and that, and +putting it into her box. Then having locked it, she stuffed a number of +small pieces of paper into the lock, using a crochet-needle to get them +well among the wards. Lastly, she put on a dress she had never worn at +Mortgrange, took up the child, who was still in a dead sleep, wrapped +him in an old shawl, and stole with him from the room. + +Like those of a thief--or murderess rather, her scared eyes looked +on this side and that, as she crept to a narrow stair that led to the +kitchen. She knew every turn and every opening in this part of the +house: for weeks she had been occupied, both intellect and imagination, +with the daring idea she was now carrying into effect. + +She reached the one door that might yield a safe exit, unlocked it +noiselessly, and stood in a little paved yard with a pump, whence +another door in an ivy-covered wall opened into the kitchen-garden. The +moon shone large and clear, but the shadow of the house protected her. +It was the month of August, warm and still. If only it had been dark! +Outside the door she was still in the shadow. For the first time in her +life she loved the darkness. Along the wall she stole as if clinging to +it. Yet another door led into a shrubbery surrounding the cottage of the +head-gardener, whence a back-road led to a gate, over which she could +climb, so to reach the highway, along whose honest, unshadowed spaces +she must walk miles and miles before she could even hope herself safe. + +She stood at length in the broad moonlight, on the white, far-reaching +road. Her heart beat so fast as almost to stifle her. She dared not look +down at the child, lest some one should see her and look also! The moon +herself had an aspect of suspicion! Why did she keep staring so? For an +instant she wished herself back in the nursery. But she knew it would +only be to do it all over again: it _had_ to be done! Leave the child +of her sister where he was counted in the way! with those who hated him! +where his helpless life was in danger! She could not! + +But, while she thought, she did not stand. Softly, with great strides +she went stalking along the road. She knew the country: she was not many +miles from her father's forge, whence at moments she seemed to hear the +ring of his hammer through the still night. + +She kept to the road for three or four miles, then turned aside on a +great moor stretching far to the south: daybreak was coming fast; she +must find some cottage or natural shelter, lest the light should betray +her. When the sun had made his round, and yielded his place to the +friendly night, she would start afresh! In her bundle she had enough for +the baby; for herself, she could hold out many hours unfed. A few more +miles from Mortgrange, and no one would know her, neither from any +possible description could they be suspected in the garments they wore! +Her object in hiding their usual attire had been, that it might be taken +for granted they had gone away in it. + +She did not slacken her pace till she had walked five miles more. Then +she stood a moment, and gazed about her. The great heath was all around, +solitary as the heaven out of which the solitary moon, with no child +to comfort her, was enviously watching them. But she would not stop to +rest, save for the briefest breathing space! On and on she went until +moorland miles five more, as near as she could judge, were behind her. +Then at length she sat down upon a stone, and a timid flutter of +safety stirred in her bosom, followed by a gush of love victorious. Her +treasure! her treasure! Not once on the long way had she looked at him. +Now she folded back the shawl, and gazed as not even a lover could have +gazed on the sleeping countenance of his rescued bride. The passion of +no other possession could have equalled the intensity of her +conscious _having_. Not one created being had a right to the child but +herself!--yet any moment he might be taken from her by a cold-hearted, +cruel stepmother, and given to a hired woman! She started to her feet, +and hurried on. The boy was no light weight, and she had things to carry +besides, which her love said he could not do without; yet before seven +o'clock she had cleared some sixteen miles, in a line from Mortgrange as +straight as she could keep. + +She thought she must now be near a village whose name she knew; but she +dared not show herself lest some advertisement might reach it after +she was gone, and lead to the discovery of the route she had taken. +She turned aside therefore into an old quarry, there to spend the day, +unvisited of human soul. The child was now awake, but still drowsy. She +gave him a little food, and ate the crust she had saved from her tea the +night before. During the long hours she slept a good deal by fits, and +when the evening came, was quite fit to resume her tramp. To her joy it +came cloudy, giving her courage to enter a little shop she saw on the +outskirts of the village, and buy some milk and some bread. From this +point she kept the road: she might now avail herself of help from cart +or wagon. She was not without money, but feared the railway. + +It is needless to follow her wanderings, always toward London, where was +her husband, and her home. A weary, but happy, and almost no longer an +anxious woman, she reached at length a certain populous suburb, and was +soon in the arms of her husband. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. _THE BOOKBINDER AND HIS PUPIL._ + +It was the middle of the day before they were missed. Their absence +caused for a time no commotion; the servants said nurse must have taken +the child for his usual walk. But when the nurse from London came, +and, after renewed search and inquiry, nothing was heard of them, their +disappearance could no longer be kept from lady Ann. She sent to inform +her husband. + +Sir Wilton asked a question or two of her messenger, said the thing must +be seen to, finished his cigar, threw the stump in the fire, and went to +his wife; when at once they began to discuss, not the steps to be taken +for the recovery of the child, but the woman's motive for stealing him. +The lady insisted it was revenge for having been turned away, and that +she would, as soon as she reached a suitable place, put an end to his +life: she had seen murder in her eyes! The father opined there was +no such danger: he remembered, though he did not mention it, the +peculiarity of the woman's behaviour when first he saw her. There was +no limit, he said, to the unnatural fancies of women; some were +disgustingly fond of children, even other women's children. Plain as the +infant was, he did not doubt she had taken a fancy to him, and therefore +declined to part with him. The element of revenge might, he allowed, +have a share in the deed; but that would be satisfied with leaving them +in doubt of his fate. For his part, he made her welcome to him! To this +lady Ann gave no answer: she was not easily shocked, and could, without +consternation, have regarded his disappearance as final. But something +must at least appear to be done! Unpleasant things might be said, and +uncertainty was full of annoyance! + +“You must be careful, sir Wilton,” she remarked. “Nobody thinks you +believe the child your own.” + +Sir Wilton laughed. + +“I never had a doubt on the subject. I wish I had: he's not to my +credit. If we never hear of him again, the better for the next!” + +“That is true!” rejoined lady Ann. “But what if, after we had forgotten +all about him, he were to turn up again?” + +“That would be unpleasant--and is indeed a reason why we should look +for him. Better find him than live in doubt! Besides, the world would be +uncharitable enough to hint that you had made away with him: it's what +ought to have been done when first he appeared. I give you my word, +Ann, he was a positive monster! The object was actually +web-footed!--web-footed like any frog!” + +“You must let the police know,” said the lady. + +“That the child is web-footed? No, I think not!” yawned sir Wilton. + +He got up, went out, and ordered a groom to ride hard to the village--as +hard as he could go--and let the police understand what had occurred. +Within the hour a constable appeared, come to inquire when last the +fugitives were seen, and what they wore--the answer to which latter +question set the police looking for persons very different in appearance +from Jane and her nursling. Nothing was heard of them, and the inquiry, +never prosecuted with any vigour, was by degrees dropped entirely. + +John Tuke had grumbled greatly at his wife's desertion of him for +grandees who would never thank her; but he gave in to the prolongation +of her absence with a better grace, when he learned how the motherless +baby was regarded by his own people. The humanity of the man rose in +defence of the injured. He felt also that, in espousing the cause of his +wife's nephew, scorned by his baronet father, he was taking the part +of his own down-trodden class. He was greatly perplexed, however, as to +what end the thing was to have. Must he live without his wife till the +boy was sent to school? + +He was in bed and fast asleep, when suddenly opening his eyes, he saw +beside him the wife he had not seen for twelve months, with the stolen +child in her arms. When he heard how the stepmother had treated her, and +how the babe was likely to fare among its gentle kin, he was filled with +fresh indignation; but, while thoroughly appreciating and approving his +wife's decision and energy, he saw to what the deed exposed them, and +augured frightful consequences to the discovery that seemed almost +certain. But when he understood the precautions she had taken, and +bethought himself how often the police fail, he had better hopes of +escape. One thing he never dreamed of--and that was, restoring the +child. Often at night he would lie wondering how far, in case of their +being tried for kidnapping, the defence would reach, that his wife was +the child's aunt; and whether the fact that she was none the less a poor +woman standing up against the rich, would not render that or any plea +unavailing. Jane was, and long remained, serenely hopeful. + +When she left for Mortgrange, they had agreed that her husband should +say she was gone to her father's; and as nobody where they lived knew +who or where her father was, nobody had the end of any clue. For some +time after her return she did not show herself, leaving it to her +husband to say she had come back with her baby. Then she began to appear +with the child, and so managed her references to her absence, that no +one dreamed of his not being her own, or imagined that she had left +her husband for other reason than to be tended at her old home in her +confinement. After a few years, even the fact of his not having been +born in that house was forgotten; and Richard Lestrange grew up as the +son of John Tuke, the bookbinder. Not in any mind was there a doubt as +to his parentage. + +They lived on the very bank of the Thames, in a poor part of a populous, +busy, thriving suburb, far from fashionable, yet not without inhabitants +of refinement. Had not art and literature sent out a few suckers into +it, there would have been no place in it for John Tuke. For, more than +liking his trade, being indeed fond of it, he would not work for the +booksellers, but used his talent to the satisfaction of known customers, +of whom he had now not a few, for his reputation had spread beyond the +near neighbourhood. But while he worked cheaper, quality considered, +than many binders, even carefully superintending that most important yet +most neglected part of the handicraft, the sewing, he never undertook +cheap work. Never, indeed, without persuasion on the part of his +employer and expostulation on his own, did he consent to _half-bind_ +a book. Hence it comes to be confessed, that, when _carte blanche_ was +given him, he would not infrequently expend upon a book an amount of +labour and a value of material quite out of proportion to the importance +of the book. Still, being a thoroughly conscientious workman, who never +hurried the forwarding, never cut from a margin a hair's breadth more +than was necessary, and hated finger-marks on the whiteness of a page, +he was well known as such, and had plenty of work--had often, indeed, to +refuse what was offered him, hence was able to decline all such jobs as +would give him no pleasure, and grew more fastidious as he grew older +in regard to the quality of the work he would undertake. He had never +employed a journeyman, and would never take more than two apprentices at +a time. + +As Richard Lestrange grew, his chief pleasure was to be in the shop with +his uncle, and watch him at his varying work. I think his knowledge of +books as things led him the sooner to desire them as realities, for to +read he learned with avidity. When he was old enough to go to school, +his adopted father spared nothing he could spend to make him fit for +his future; wisely resolved, however, that he should know nothing of his +rights until he was of an age to understand them--except, indeed, sir +Wilton should die before that age arrived, when his cause would be too +much prejudiced by farther postponement of claim. Heartily they hoped +that their secret might remain a secret until their nephew should be +capable of protecting them from any untoward consequence of their well +intended crime. + +Happily there was in the place, and near enough for the boy to attend it +easily, a good day-school upon an old foundation, whose fees were within +his father's means. Richard proved a fair student and became a great +reader. But he took such an intelligent and practical interest in the +work he saw going on at home, that he began, while yet a mere child, to +use paste and paper of his own accord. First he made manuscript-books +for his work at school, and for the copying of such verses as he took +a fancy to in his reading. Then inside the covers of some of these he +would make pockets for papers; and so advanced to small portfolios and +pocket-books, of which he would make presents to his companions, and +sometimes, when more ambitiously successful, to a master. In their +construction he used bits of coloured paper and scraps of leather, +chiefly morocco, which his father willingly made over to him, watching +his progress with an interest quite paternal, and showing a workman's +wisdom in this, that only when he saw him in a real difficulty would he +come to his aid--as, for instance, when first he struggled with a piece +of leather too thick for the bonds of paste, and must be taught how to +pare it to the necessary flexibility and compliance. + +To become able to _make_ something is, I think, necessary to thorough +development. I would rather have son of mine a carpenter, a watchmaker, +a wood-carver, a shoemaker, a jeweller, a blacksmith, a bookbinder, +than I would have him earn his bread as a clerk in a counting-house. +Not merely is the cultivation of operant faculty a better education in +faculty, but it brings the man nearer to every thing operant; humanity +unfolds itself to him the readier; its ways and thoughts and modes of +being grow the clearer to both intellect and heart. The poetry of +life, the inner side of that nature which comes from him who, on the +Sabbath-days even, “worketh hitherto,” rises nearer the surface to +meet the eyes of the man who _makes._ What advantage the carpenter of +Nazareth gathered from his bench, is the inheritance of every workman, +in proportion as he does divine, that is, honest work. + +Perceiving the faculty of the boy, his father--so let us call John Tuke +for the present--naturally thought it well to make him a gift of his +trade: it would always be a possession! “Whatever turn things may take,” + he would remark to his wife, “the boy will have his bread in his hands. +And say what they will, the man who can gather his food off his own +bench, or screw it out of his own press, must be a freer man than he who +but for his inheritance would have to beg, steal, or die of hunger. And +who knows how long the world may permit idlers to fare of its best!” + +For, after a fashion of his own, Tuke was a philosopher and a +politician. But his politics were those of the philosopher, not of the +politician. + +Richard, with his great love of reading, and therefore of books, was +delighted to learn the craft which is their attendant and servitor. When +too young yet to wield the hammer without danger both to himself and the +book under it, he began to sew, and in a few weeks was able to bring +the sheets together entirely to the satisfaction of his father. From the +first he set him to do that essential part of the work in the best way, +that is, to sew every sheet round every cord: it is only when one can +perfectly work after the perfect rule, that he may be trusted with +variations and exceptions. + +He went on teaching him until the boy could, he confessed, do almost +everything better than himself--went on until he had taught him every +delicacy, every secret of the craft. Richard developed a positive genius +for the work, seeming almost to learn it by intuition. A pocket-book, +with which he presented his father on his fiftieth birthday, brought out +his unqualified praise. + +In the process he gradually revealed a predilection for a rarer use of +his faculty--a use more nice, while less distinguished, and not much +favoured by his father. It had its prime source deeper than the art +of book-binding--in the love of books themselves, not as leaves to be +bound, but as utterances to be heard. Certain dealers in old books +have loved some of them so as to refuse to part with them on any +terms; Richard, unable to possess more than a very few, manifested +his veneration for them in another and nearer fashion, running, as was +natural and healthy, in the lines of his calling. + +For many months in diligent attendance at certain of the evening-classes +at King's College, he had developed a true insight into and sympathy +with what is best in our literature--chiefly in that of the sixteenth +century: from this grew an almost peculiar regard for old books. With +three or four shillings weekly at his disposal, he laid himself out to +discover and buy such volumes as, in themselves of value, were in so bad +a condition as to be of little worth from the mere bookseller's point +of view: with these for his first patients he opened a hospital, or +angel-asylum, for the lodging, restorative treatment, and systematic +invigoration of decayed volumes. Love and power combined made him look +on the dilapidated, slow-wasting abodes of human thought and delight +with a healing compassion--almost with a passion of healing. The worse +gnawed of the tooth of insect-time, the farther down any choice book in +the steep decline of years, the more intent was Richard on having +it. More and more skillful he grew, not only in rebinding such whose +clothing was past repair, but in restoring the tone of their very +constitution; and in so mending the ancient and beggarly garments of +others that they reassumed a venerable respectability. Through love, +he passed from an artisan to an artist. His reverence for the inner +reality, the book itself, in itself beyond time and decay, had roused +in him a child-like regard for its body, for its broken inclosure and +default of manifestation. He would espy the beauty of an old binding +through any amount of abrasion and laceration. To his eyes almost any +old binding was better for its book than any new one. + +His father came to regard with wonder and admiration the redeeming +faculty of his son, whereby he would reinstate in strength and ripe +dignity a volume which he would have taken to pieces, and redressed like +an age-worn woman in a fashionable gown. So far did his son's superior +taste work upon his, that at length, if he opened a new binding, however +sombre, and saw a time-browned paper and old type within, the sight +would give him the shock of a discord. + +But Tuke was in many things no other than a man of this world, and +sorely he doubted if such labour would ever have its counterpoise in +money. It paid better, because it was much easier, to reclothe than to +restore! to destroy and replace than to renew! When he had watched many +times for minutes together his son's delicate manipulation--in which he +patched without pauperizing, and subaided without humiliating--and at +last contemplating the finished result, he concluded him possessed of +a quite original faculty for book-healing.--“But alas,” he thought, +“genius seldom gets beyond board-wages!” It did not occur to him +that genius least requires more than board-wages. He encouraged him, +nevertheless, though mildly, in the pursuit of this neglected branch of +the binding-art. + +As the days went on, and their love for their nephew grew with his +deserts, the uncle and aunt shrank more and more from the thought, which +every year compelled them to think the oftener, that the day was drawing +nigh when they must volunteer the confession that he was not their +child. + +When he was about seventeen, Richard settled down to work with his +father, occasionally assisting him, but in general occupied with his +own special branch, in which Tuke, through his long connection with +book-lovers possessing small cherished libraries, was able to bring him +almost as many jobs as he could undertake. The fact that a volume could +be so repaired, stimulated the purchase of shabby books; and part of +what was saved on the price of a good copy was laid out on the amendment +of the poor one. But however much the youth delighted in it, he could +not but find the work fidgety and tiring; whence ensued the advantage +that he left it the oftener for a ramble, or a solitary hour on the +river. He had but few companions, his guardians, wisely or not, being +more fastidious about his associates than if he had been their very son. +His uncle, of strong socialistic opinions, and wont to dilate on human +equality--as if the thing that ought to be, and must one day come, could +be furthered by the assertion of its present existence--was, like the +holders of even higher theories, not a little apt to forget the practice +necessarily involved: this son of a baronet, seeing that he was the +son also of his wife's sister, was not to be brought up like one of the +many! + +Ugliness in infancy is a promise, though perhaps a doubtful one, of +beauty in manhood; and in Richard's case the promise was fulfilled: +hardly a hint was left of the baby-face which had repelled his father. +He was now a handsome well-grown youth, with dark-brown hair, dark-green +eyes, broad shoulders, and a little stoop which made his aunt uneasy: +she would have had him join a volunteer corps, but he declared he had +not the time. He accepted her encouragement, however, to forsake his +work as often as he felt inclined. He had good health; what was better, +a good temper; and what was better still, a willing heart toward his +neighbour. A certain over-hanging of his brows was--especially when he +contracted them, as, in perplexity or endeavour, he not infrequently +did--called a scowl by such as did not love him; but it was of shallow +insignificance, and probably the trick of some ancestor. + +Before long, his thinking began to take form in verse-making. It matters +little to my narrative whether he produced anything of original value or +not; utterance aids growth, which is the prime necessity of human as +of all other life. Not seldom, bent over his work, he would be evolving +some musical fashion of words--with no relaxation, however, of the sharp +attention and delicate handling required by the nature of that work. It +is the privilege of some kinds of labour, that they are compatible with +thoughts of higher things. At the book-keeper's desk, the clerk must +think of nothing but his work; he is chained to it as the galley-slave +to his oar; the shoemaker may be poet or mystic, or both; the ploughman +may turn a good furrow and a good verse together; Richard could at once +use hands and thoughts. It troubled his protectors that they could not +send him to college, but they comforted themselves that it would not be +too late when he returned to his natural position in society. They +had no plan in their minds, no date settled at which to initiate his +restoration. All they had determined was, that he must at least be a +grown man, capable of looking after his own affairs, when the first step +for it was taken. + +John Tuke was one of those who acknowledge in some measure the claims of +their neighbour, but assert ignorance of any one who must be worshipped. +And in truth, the God presented to him by his teachers was one with +little claim on human devotion. The religious system brought to bear on +his youth had operated but feebly on his conscience, and not at all +on his affections. It had, however, so wrought upon his apprehensions, +that, when afterward persuaded there was no ground for agonizing +anticipation, he welcomed the conviction as in itself a redemption for +all men; “for, surely,” he argued, “fear is the worst of evils!” The +very approach of such a relief predisposed him to receive whatever +teaching might follow from the same source; and soon he believed +himself satisfied that the notion of religion--of duty toward an unseen +maker--was but an old-wives'-fable; and that, as to the hereafter, a +mere cessation of consciousness was the only reasonable expectation. The +testimony of his senses, although negative, he accepted as stronger +on that side than any amount of what could, he said, be but the purest +assertion on the other. Why should he heed an old book? why one more +than another? The world was around him: some things he must believe; +other things no man could! One thing was clear: every man was bound to +give his neighbour fair-play! He would press nothing upon Richard as to +God or no God! he would not be dogmatic! he only wanted to make a man +of him! And was he not so far successful? argued John. Was not Richard +growing up a diligent, honest fellow, loving books, and leading a good +life; whereas, had he been left to his father, he could not have escaped +being arrogant and unjust, despising the poor of his own flesh, and +caring only to please himself! In the midst of such superior causes +of satisfaction, it also pleased Tuke to reflect that the trade he had +taught his nephew was a clean one, which, while it rendered him superior +to any shrewd trick fortune might play him, would not make his hands +unlike those of a gentleman. + +His aunt, however, kept wishing that Richard were better “set up,” and +looked more like his grandfather the blacksmith, whose trade she could +not help regarding as manlier than that of her husband. Hence she +had long cherished the desire that he should spend some time with her +father. But John would not hear of it. He would get working at the +forge, he said, and ruin his hands for the delicate art in which he was +now unapproachable. + +For in certain less socialistic moods, John would insist on regarding +bookbinding, in all and any of its branches, not as a trade, but an art. + + + + +CHAPTER V. _THE MANSONS._ + +At school, Richard had been friendly with a boy of gentle nature, not +many years older than himself. The boy had stood his friend in more +than one difficulty, and Richard heartily loved him. But he had suddenly +disappeared from the school, and so from Richard's ken: for years he had +not seen him. One evening, as he was carrying home a book, he met this +Arthur Manson, looking worn and sad. He would have avoided Richard, but +he stopped him, and presently the old friendship was dominant. Arthur +told him his story. He had had to leave school because of the sudden +cessation, from what cause he did not know, of a certain annuity his +mother had till then enjoyed--rendering it imperative that he should +earn his own living, and contribute to her support, for although she +still had a little money, it was not nearly enough. His sister was at +work with a dressmaker, but as yet earning next to nothing. His mother +was a lady, he said, and had never done any work. He was himself in a +counting-house in the City, with a salary of forty pounds. He told him +where they lived, and Richard promised to go and see him, which he did +the next Sunday. + +His friend's mother lived in a little house of two floors, one of a long +row lately built. The furniture was much too large, and it was difficult +to move in the tiny drawing-room. It showed a feeble attempt at +decoration, which made it look the poorer. Accustomed to his mother's +care of her things, Richard perceived a difference: these were much +finer but neglected, and looked as if they felt it. At their evening +meal, however, the tea was good, and the bread and butter were of the +best. + +The mother was a handsome middle-aged woman--not so old, Richard somehow +imagined, as she looked. She was stout and florid, with plenty of black, +rather coarse hair, and seemed to Richard to have the carriage of a +lady, but not speech equal to her manners. She was polite to him, but +not apparently interested in her son's friend. Yet several times he +found her gazing at him with an expression that puzzled him. He had, +however, too clear a conscience to be troubled by any scrutiny. All +the evening Arthur's face wore the same look of depression, and Richard +wondered what could be amiss. He learned afterward that the mother was +so self-indulgent, and took so little care to make the money go as far +as it could, that he had not merely to toil from morning to night at +uncongenial labour, but could never have the least recreation, and was +always too tired when he came home to understand any book he attempted +to read. Richard learned also that he had no greatcoat, and went to +the City in the winter with only a shabby comforter in addition to the +clothes he had worn all the summer. But it was not Arthur who told him +this. + +The girl was a graceful little creature, with the same sad look her +brother had, but not the same depression. She seemed more delicate, +and less capable of labour; yet her hours were longer than his, and her +confinement greater. Alice had to sit the whole day plying her needle, +while Arthur was occasionally sent out to collect money. But her +mistress was a kind-hearted woman, and not having a fashionable +_clientèle_, had not yet become indifferent to the well-being of her +work-women. She even paid a crippled girl a trifle for reading to them, +stipulating only that she should read fast, for she found the rate of +their working greatly influenced by the rate of the reading. Life, if +harder, was therefore not quite so uninteresting to Alice as to Arthur, +and that might be why she seemed to have more vitality. Like her mother +she had a quantity of hair, as dark as hers, but finer; dark eyes, not +without meaning; irregular but very pleasing and delicate features; and +an unusually white rather than pale complexion, with a sort of sallow +glow under the diaphanous skin. There was not a little piquancy in the +expression of her countenance, and Richard felt it strangely attractive. + +The youths found they had still tastes in common, although Arthur had +neither time nor strength to follow them. Richard spoke of some book he +had been reading. Arthur was interested, but Alice so much that Richard +offered to lend it her: it was the first time she had heard a book +spoken of in such a tone--one of suppressed feeling, almost veneration. + +The mother did not join in their talk, and left them soon--her daughter +said to go to church. + +“She always goes by herself,” Alice added. “She sees we are too tired to +go.” + +They sat a long time with no light but that of the fire. Arthur seemed +to gather courage, and confessed the hopeless monotony of his life. He +complained of no privation, only of want of interest in his work. + +“Do _you_ like your work?” he asked Richard. + +“Indeed I do!” Richard answered. “I would sooner handle an old book than +a bunch of bank-notes!” + +“I don't doubt it,” returned Arthur. “To me your workshop seems a +paradise.” + +“Why don't you take up the trade, then? Come to us and I will teach you. +I do not think my father would object.” + +“I learn nothing where I am!” continued Arthur. + +“Our boat is not over-manned,” resumed Richard. “Say you will come, and +I will speak to my father.” + +“I wish I could! But how are we to live while I am learning?--No; I must +grind away till--” + +He stopped short, and gave a sigh. + +“Till when, Arty?” asked his sister. + +“Till death set me free,” he answered. + +“You wouldn't leave me behind, Arty!” said Alice; and rising, she put +her arm round his neck. + +“I wouldn't if I could help it,” he replied. + +“It's a cowardly thing to want to die,” said Richard. + +“I think so sometimes.” + +“There's your mother!” + +“Yes,” responded Arthur, but without emotion. + +“And how should I get on without you, Arty?” said his sister. + +“Not very well, Ally. But it wouldn't be for long. We should soon meet.” + +“Who told you that?” said Richard almost rudely. + +“Don't you think we shall know each other afterwards?” asked Arthur, +with an expression of weary rather than sad surprise. + +“I would be a little surer of it before I talked so coolly of leaving a +sister like that! I only wish _I_ had one to care for!” + +A faint flush rose on the pale face of the girl, and as swiftly faded. + +“Do you think, then, that this life is only a dream?” she said, +looking up at Richard with something in her great eyes that he did not +understand. + +“Anyhow,” he answered, “I would bear a good deal rather than run the +risk of going so fast asleep as to stop dreaming it. A man can die any +time,” he continued, “but he can't dream when he pleases! I would wait! +One can't tell when things may take a turn! There are many chances on +the cards!” + +“That's true,” replied Arthur; but plainly the very chances were a +weariness to him. + +“If Arthur had enough to eat, and time to read, and a little amusement, +he would be as brave as you are, Mr. Tuke!” said Alice. “--But you can't +mean to say there will be no more of anything for us after this world! +To think I should never see Arty again, would make me die before my +time! I should be so miserable I would hardly care to keep him as long +as I might. We must die some day, and what odds whether it be a few days +sooner, or a few days later, if we're never going to meet again?” + +“The best way is not to think about it,” returned Richard. “Why should +you? Look at the butterflies! They take what comes, and don't grumble at +their sunshine because there's only one day of it.” + +“But when there's no sunshine that day?” suggested Alice. + +“Well, when they lie crumpled in the rain, they're none the worse that +they didn't think about it beforehand! We must make the best of what we +have!” + +“It's not worth making the best of,” cried Alice indignantly, “if that's +all!” + +My reader may well wonder at Richard: how could he be a lover of our +best literature and talk as he did? or rather, talking as he did, +how could he love it? But he had come to love it while yet under the +influence of what his aunt taught him, poor as was her teaching. Then +his heart and imagination were more in the ascendency. Now he had begun +to admire the intellectual qualities of that literature more, and its +imaginative less; for he had begun to think truth attainable through the +forces of the brain, sole and supreme. + +In matters of conduct, John Tuke and his wife were well agreed; +in matters of opinion, they differed greatly. Jane went to church +regularly, listened without interest, and accepted without question; +had her husband gone, he would have listened with the interest of utter +dissent. When Jane learned that her husband no longer “believed in the +Bible,” she was seized with terror lest he should die without repentance +and be lost. Thereupon followed fear for herself: was not an atheist +a horribly wicked man?--and she could not feel that John was horribly +wicked! She tried her hardest, but could not; and concluded therefore +that his unbelief must be affecting her. She prayed him to say nothing +against the Bible to Richard--at least before he arrived at years +of discretion. This John promised; but subtle effluences are subtle +influences. + +John Tuke did right so far as he knew--at least he thought he did--and +refused to believe in any kind of God; Jane did right, she thought, as +far as she knew--and never imagined God cared about her: let him who has +a mind to it, show the value of the difference! + +Tuke was a thinking man;--that is, set a going in any direction that +interested him, he could take a few steps forward without assistance. +But he could start in no direction of himself. At a small club to which +he belonged, he had been brought in contact with certain ideas new to +him, and finding himself able to grasp them, felt at once as if they +must be true. Certain other ideas, new to him, coming self-suggested in +their train, he began immediately to imagine himself a thinker, able to +generate notions to which the people around him were unequal. He began +to grow self-confident, and so to despise. Taking courage then to deny +things he had never believed, had only not thought about, and finding +he thereby gave offence, he chose to imagine himself a martyr for the +truth. He did not see that a denial involving no assertion, cannot +witness to any truth; nor did he perceive that denial in his case meant +nothing more than non-acceptance of things asserted. Had he put his +position logically, it would have been this: I never knew such things; +I do not like the notion of them; therefore I deny them: they do not +exist. But no man really denies a thing which he knows only by the +words that stand for it. When John Tuke denied the God in his notion, he +denied only a God that could have no existence. + +A man will be judged, however, by his truth toward what he professes to +believe; and John was far truer to his perception of the duty of man to +man than are ninety-nine out of the hundred of so-called Christians to +the things they profess to believe. How many men would be immeasurably +better, if they would but truly believe, that is, act upon, the smallest +part of what they untruly profess to believe, even if they cast aside +all the rest. John cast aside an allegiance to God which had never been +more than a mockery, and set about delivering his race from the fear of +a person who did not exist. For, true enough, there was no God of the +kind John denied; only, what if, in delivering his kind from the tyranny +of a false God, he aided in hiding from them the love of a true God--of +a God that did and ought to exist? There are other passions besides +fear, and precious as fear is hateful. If there be a God and one has +never sought him, it will be small consolation to remember that he +could not get proof of his existence. Is a child not to seek his father, +because he cannot prove he is alive? + +The aunt continued to take the boy to church, and expose him, for it was +little more she did, to a teaching she could not herself either supply +or supplement. It was the business of the church to teach Christianity! +her part was to accept it, and bring the child where he also might +listen and accept! But what she accepted as Christianity, is another +question; and whether the acceptance of anything makes a Christian, is +another still. + +How much of Christianity a child may or may not learn by going to +church, it is impossible to say; but certainly Richard did not learn +anything that drew his heart to Jesus of Nazareth, or caught him in +any heavenly breeze, or even the smallest of celestial whirlwinds! He +learned nothing even that made unwelcome such remarks as his father +would now and then let fall concerning the clergy and the way they +followed their trade; while the grin, full of conscious superiority, +with which he unconsciously accompanied them, found its reflection in +the honourable but not yet humble mind, beginning to be aware of its own +faculty, and not aware that the religion presented in his aunt's +church, a religion neither honourable nor elevating, was but the dullest +travesty of the religion of St. Paul. Richard had, besides, read several +books which, had his uncle been _careful_ of the promise he had given +his wife, he would have intentionally removed instead of unintentionally +leaving about. + +In the position Richard had just taken toward his new friends, he was +not a little influenced by the desire to show himself untrammelled by +prevailing notions, and capable of thinking for himself; but this was +far from all that made him speak as he did. Many young fellows are as +ready to deny as Richard, but not many feel as strongly that life rests +upon what we know, that knowledge must pass into action. The denial of +every falsehood under the sun would not generate one throb of life. + +Richard told his adoptive parents where he had been, and asked if +he might invite his new friends for the next Sunday. They made no +objection, and when Arthur and Alice came, received them kindly. Richard +took Arthur to the shop, and showed him the job he was engaged upon at +the time, lauding his department as affording more satisfaction than +mere binding. + +“For,” he said, “the thing that is not, may continue not to be; but the +thing that is, should be as it was meant to be. Where it is not such, +there is an evil that wants remedy. It may be that the sole remedy is +binding, but that involves destruction, therefore is a poor thing beside +renovation.” + +The argument came from a well of human pity in himself, deeper than +Richard knew. But both the pity he felt and the _truth_ in what he said +came from a source eternal of which he yet knew nothing. + +“It would be much easier,” continued Richard, “to make that volume +look new, but how much more delightful to send it out with a revived +assertion of its ancient self!” + +Some natures have a better chance of disclosing the original in them, +that they have not been to college, and set to think in other people's +grooves, instead of those grooves that were scored in themselves long +before the glacial era. + +“For my part,” said Arthur, “I feel like a book that needs to be fresh +printed, not to say fresh bound! I don't feel why I am what I am. I +would part with it all, except just being the same man!” + +While the youths were having their talk, Alice was in Jane's bedroom, +undergoing an examination, the end and object of which it was impossible +she should suspect. Caught by a certain look in her sweet face, +reminding her of a look that was anything but sweet, Jane had set +herself to learn from her what she might as to her people and history. + +“Is your father alive, my dear?” she asked, with her keen black eyes on +Alice's face. + +That grew red, and for a moment the girl did not answer. Jane pursued +her catechizing. + +“What was his trade or profession?” she inquired. + +The girl said nothing, and the merciless questioner went on. + +“Tell me something about him, dear. Do you remember him? Or did he die +when you were quite a child?” + +“I do not remember him,” answered Alice. “I do not know if I ever saw +him.” + +“Did your mother never tell you what he was like?” + +“She told me once he was very handsome--the handsomest man she ever +saw--but cruel--so cruel! she said.--I don't want to talk about him, +please, ma'am!” concluded Alice, the tears running down her cheeks. + +“I'm sorry, my dear, to hurt you, but I'm not doing it from curiosity. +You have a look so like a man I once knew,--and your brother has +something of the same!--that in fact I am bound to learn what I can +about you.” + +“What sort was the man we put you in mind of?” asked Alice, with a +feeble attempt at a smile. “Not a _very_ bad man, I hope!” + +“Well, not very good--as you ask me.--He was what people call a +gentleman!” + +“Was that all?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I thought he was a nobleman!” + +“Oh!--well, he wasn't that; he was a baronet.” + +Alice gave a little cry. + +“Do tell me something about him,” she said. “What do you know about +him?” + +“More than I choose to tell. We will forget him now, if you please!” + +There was in her voice a tone of displeasure, which Alice took to +be with herself. She was in consequence both troubled and perplexed. +Neither made any more inquiries. Jane took her guest back to the +sitting-room. + +The moment her brother came from the workshop, Alice said to him-- + +“Are you ready, Arthur? We had better be moving!” + +Arthur was a gentle creature, and seldom opposed her; he seemed only +surprised a little, and asked if she was ill. But Richard, who had all +the week been looking forward to a talk with Alice, and wanted to show +her his little library, was much disappointed, and begged her to change +her mind. She insisted, however, and he put on his hat to walk with +them. + +But his aunt called him, and whispered that she would be particularly +obliged to him if he would go to church with her that evening. He +expostulated, saying he did not care to go to church; but as she +insisted, he yielded, though not with the best grace. + +Before another Sunday, there came, doubtless by his aunt's management, +an invitation to spend a few weeks with his grandfather, the blacksmith. + +Richard was not altogether pleased, for he did not like leaving his +work; but his aunt again prevailed with him, and he agreed to go. In +this, as in most things, he showed her a deference such as few young men +show their mothers. Her influence came, I presume, through the strong +impression of purpose she had made on him. + +His uncle objected to his going, and grumbled a good deal. As the +brewer looks down on the baker, so the bookbinder looked down on the +blacksmith. + +He said the people Richard would see about his grandfather, were not +fit company for the heir of Mortgrange! But he knew the necessity of his +going somewhere for a while, and gave in. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. _SIMON ARMOUR_. + +Simon Armour was past only the agility, not the strength of his youth, +and in his feats of might and skill he cherished pride. Without being +offensively conceited, he regarded himself--and well might--as the +superior of any baronet such as his daughter's husband, and desired of +him no recognition of the relationship. All he looked for from any man, +whether he stood above or beneath his own plane, was proper pay for +good work, and natural human respect. Some of the surrounding gentry, +possibly not uninfluenced, in sentiment at least, by the growing +radicalism of the age, enjoyed the free, jolly, but unpresuming carriage +of the stalwart old man, to whom, if indeed on his head the almond-tree +was already in blossom, the grasshopper was certainly not yet a burden: +he could still ply a sledge-hammer in each hand. “My lord,” came from +his lips in a clear, ringing tone of good-fellowship, which the nobleman +who occasionally stopped at his forge to give him some direction about +the shoeing of this or that horse, liked well to hear, and felt the +friendlier for--though I doubt if he would have welcomed it from a +younger man. + +Besides his daughter Jane and her husband, he alone was aware of the +real parentage of the lad who passed as their son; and he knew that, if +he lived long enough, an hour would call him to stand up for the rights +of his grandson. Perhaps it was partly in view of this, that he had +for years been an abstainer from strong drink; but I am inclined to +attribute the fact chiefly to his having found the love of it gaining +upon him. “Damn the drink!” he had been more than once overheard to say, +“it shall know which of us is master!” And when Simon had made up his +mind to a thing, the thing was--not indeed as good, but almost as sure +as done. The smallest of small beer was now his strongest drink. + +He was a hard-featured, good-looking, white-haired man of sixty, +with piercing eyes of quite cerulean blue, and a rough voice with an +undertone of music in it. There was music, indeed, all through him. +In the roughest part of his history it was his habit to go to +church--mainly, I may say entirely, for the organ, but his behaviour +was never other than reverent. How much he understood, may be left +a question somewhat dependent on how much there may have been to +understand; but he had a few ideas in religion which were very much his +own, and which, especially some with regard to certain of the lessons +from the Old Testament, would have considerably astonished some parsons, +and considerably pleased others. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, +with the brawniest arms, and eyes so bright and scintillant that one +might fancy they caught and kept for their own use the sparks that flew +from his hammer. His face was red, with a great but short white beard, +suggesting the sun in a clean morning-fog. + +A rickety omnibus carried Richard from the railway-station some five +miles to the smithy. When the old man heard it stop, he threw down his +hammer, strode hastily to the door, met his grandson with a gripe that +left a black mark and an ache, and catching up his portmanteau, set it +down inside. + +“I'll go with you in a moment, lad!” he said, and seizing with a long +pair of pincers the horse-shoe that lay in process on the anvil, he +thrust it into the fire, blew a great roaring blast from the bellows, +plucked out the shoe glowing white, and fell upon it as if it were a +devil. Having thus cowed it a bit, he grew calm, and more deliberately +shaped it to an invisible idea. His grandson was delighted with the +mingling of determination, intent, and power, with certainty of result, +manifest in every blow. In two minutes he had the shoe on the end of a +long hooked rod, and was hanging it beside others on a row of nails in a +beam. Then he turned and said-- + +“There, lad! that's off the anvil--and off my mind! Now I'm for you!” + +“Grandfather,” said Richard, “I shouldn't like to have you for an +enemy!” + +“Why not, you rascal! Do you think I would take unfair advantage of +you?” + +“No, that I don't! But you've got awful arms and hands!” + +“They've done a job or two in their day, lad!” he answered; “but I'm +getting old now! I can't do what I thought nothing of once. Well, no man +was made to last for ever--no more than a horse-shoe! There'd be no work +for the Maker if he did!” + +“I'm glad to see we're of one mind, grandfather!” said Richard. + +“Well, why shouldn't we--if so be we're in the right mind!--Yes; we +must be o' one mind if we're o' the right mind! The year or two I may be +ahead o' you in gettin' at it, goes for nothing: I started sooner!--But +what may be the mind you speak of, sonny?” + +The look of keen question the old man threw on him, woke a doubt in +Richard whether he might not have misunderstood his grandfather. + +“I think,” he answered, “if a man was made to last for ever, the world +would get tired of him. When a horse or a dog has done his work, he's +content--and so is his master.” + +“Nay, but I bean't! I bean't content to lose the old horse as I've shod +mayhap for twenty years--no, not if I bean't his master!” + +“There's no help for it, though!” + +“None as I knows on. I'd be main glad to hear any news on the subjec' as +you can supply!--No, I ain't content; I'm sorry!” + +“Why don't the parsons say the old horse'll rise again?” + +“'Cause the parsons knows nought about it. How should they?” + +“They say we're going to rise again.” + +“Why shouldn't they? I guess I'll be up as soon as I may! I don't want +no night to lie longer than rest my bones!” + +“I mistook what you meant, grandfather. I thought, when you said you +weren't made to last for ever, that you meant there was an end of you!” + +“Well, so you might, and small blame to you! It's a wrong way of +speaking we all have. But you've set me thinking--whether by mistake +or not, where's the matter! I never thought what come o' the old horse, +a'ter all his four shoes takes to shinin' at oncet! For the old smith +when he drops his hammer--I have thought about _him_. Lord!--to think o' +that anvil never ringin' no more to this here fist o' mine!” + +While they talked, the blacksmith had put off his thick apron of +hide; and now, catching up Richard's portmanteau as if it had been a +hand-basket, he led the way to a cottage not far from the forge, in +a lane that here turned out of the high road. It was a humble place +enough--one story and a wide attic. The front was almost covered with +jasmine, rising from a little garden filled with cottage flowers. Behind +was a larger garden, full of cabbages and gooseberry-bushes. + +A girl came to the door, with a kind, blushing face, and hands as red +as her cheeks--a great-niece of the old smith. He passed her and led the +way into a room half kitchen, half parlour. + +“Here you are, lad--_at_ home, I hope! Sech as it is, an' as much as +it's mine, it's yours, an' I hope you'll make it so.” + +He deposited the portmanteau, glanced quickly round, saw that Jessie had +not followed them, and said-- + +“You'll keep your good news till I've turned it over!” + +“What good news, grandfather?” + +“The good news that them as is close pared, has no call to look out +for the hoof to grow. I'm not saying you're wrong, lad--not _yet_; but +everybody mightn't think your news so good as to be worth a special +messenger! So till you're quite sure of it--” + +“I _am_ quite sure of it, grandfather!” + +“I'm not; and having charge of the girl there, I'll ha' no dish served +i' my house as I don't think wholesome!” + +“You're right there, grandfather! You may trust me!” answered Richard +respectfully. + +The blacksmith had spoken with a decision that was imperative. His red +face shone out of his white beard, and his eyes sparkled out of his red +face; his head gave a nod, and his jaws a snap. + +They had tea, with bread and butter and marmalade, and much talk about +John and Jane Tuke, in which the old man said oftener, “your aunt,” and +“your uncle,” than “your father” or “your mother;” but Richard put it +down to the confusion that often accompanies age. When the bookbinding +came up, Richard was surprised to discover that the blacksmith was +far from looking upon their trade as superior to his own. It was plain +indeed that he regarded bookbinding as a quite inferior and scarce manly +employment. To the blacksmith, bookbinding and tailoring were much the +same--fit only for women. Richard did not relish this. He endeavoured +to make his grandfather see the dignity of the work, insisting that its +difficulty was the greater because of the less strength required in it: +the strength itself had, he said, in certain of its operations, to be +pared to the requisite fineness, to be modified with extreme accuracy; +while in others, all the strength a man had was necessary, and +especially in a shop like theirs, where everything was done by hand. But +the fine work, he said, tired one much the most. + +“Fine work!” echoed the smith with contempt. “There came a gentleman +here to be shod t'other day from the Hall, who was a great traveller; +and he told me he seen in Japan a blacksmith with a sprig of may on the +anvil before him, an' him a-copyin' to the life them blossoms in hard +iron with his one hammer! What say you to that, lad?” + +“Wonderful! But that same man couldn't do the heavy work you think +nothing of, grandfather!” + +“Nay, for that I don't know. I know I couldn't do his!” + +“Then we'll allow that fine work may be a manly thing as well as hard +work. But I do wish I could shoe a horse!” + +“What's to hinder you?” + +“Will you let me learn, grandfather?” + +“Learn! I'll learn you myself. _You'll_ soon learn. It's not as if you +was a bumpkin to teach! The man as can do anything, can do everything.” + +“Come along then, grandfather! I want to let you see that though my +hands may catch a blister or two, they're not the less fit for hard work +that they can do fine. I'll be safe to shoe a horse before many days are +over. Only you must have a little patience with me.” + +“Nay, lad, I'll have a great patience with you. Before many days are +over, make the shoe you may, and make it well; but to shoe a horse as +the horse ought to be shod, that comes by God's grace.” + +They went back to the smithy, and there, the very day of his arrival, +more to Simon's delight than he cared to show, the soft-handed +bookbinder began to wield a hammer, and compel the stubborn iron. So +deft and persevering was he, that, ere they went from the forge that +same night, he could not only bend the iron to a proper curve round the +beak of the anvil, but had punched the holes in half a dozen shoes. At +last he confessed himself weary; and when his grandfather saw the state +of his hands, blistered and swollen so that he could not close them, he +was able no longer to restrain his satisfaction. + +“Come!” he cried; “you're a man after all, bookbinder! In six months I +should have you a thorough blacksmith.” + +“I wouldn't undertake to make a bookbinder of you, grandfather, in the +time!” returned Richard. + +“Tit for tat, sonny, and it's fair!” said Simon. “I should leave the +devil his mark on your white pages.--How much of them do you rend now, +as you stick them together?” + +“Not a word as I stick them together. But many are brought me to be +doctored and mended up, and from some of them I take part of my pay in +reading them--books, I mean, that I wouldn't otherwise find it easy to +lay my hands upon--scarce books, you know.” + +“You would like to go to Oxford, wouldn't ye, lad--and lay in a stock to +last your life out?” + +“You might as well think to lay victuals into you for a lifetime, +grandfather! But I should like to lay in a stock of the tools to be got +at Oxford! It would be grand to be able to pick the lock of any door I +wanted to see the other side of.” + +“I'll put you up to pick any lock you ever saw, or are likely to see,” + returned Armour. “I served my time to a locksmith. We didn't hit it off +always, and so hit one another--as often almost as the anvil. So when I +was out of my time, and couldn't get locksmith's work except in a large +forge, I knew better than take it: for I couldn't help getting into +rows, and was afraid of doing somebody a mischief when my blood was +up. So I started for myself as a general blacksmith-in a small way, of +course. But my right hand 'ain't forgot its cunning in locks! I'll teach +you to pick the cunningest lock in the world--whether made in Italy or +in China.” + +“The lock I was thinking of,” said Richard, “was that of the tree of +knowledge.” + +“I've heerd,” returned Simon, with more humour than accuracy, “as that +was a raither pecooliar lock. How it was kep' red hot all the time +without coal and bellows, I don't seem to see!” + +“Ah!” said Richard, “you mean the flaming sword that turned every way?” + +“I reckon I do!” + +“You don't say you believe that story, grandfather?” + +“I don't say what I believe or what I don't believe. The flamin' iron as +I've had to do with, has both kep' me out o' knowledge, an' led me into +knowledge! I'll turn the tale over again! You see, lad, when I was +a boy, I thought everything my mother said and my father did, +old-fashioned, and a bit ignorant-like; but when I was a man, I saw +that, if I had started right off from where they set me down, I would +ha' been farther ahead. To honour your father an' mother don't mean to +stick by their chimbley-corner all your life, but to start from their +front door and go foret. I went by the back door, like the fool I was, +to get into the front road, and had a long round to make.” + +“I shan't do so with my father. He don't read much, but he thinks. He's +got a head, my father!” + +“There was fathers afore yours, lad! You needn't scorn yer gran'ther for +your father!” + +“Scorn you, grandfather! God forbid!--or, at least,--” + +“You don't see what I'm drivin' at, sonny!--When an old tale comes to +me from the far-away time, I don't pitch it into the road, any more'n I +would an old key or an old shoe--a horse-shoe, I mean: it was something +once, and it may be something again! I hang the one up, and turn the +other over. An' if you be strong set on throwin' either away, lad, I +misdoubt me you an' me won't blaze together like _one_ flamin' sword!” + +Richard held his peace. The old man had already somehow impressed him. +If he had not, like his father, bid good-bye to superstition, there was +in him a power that was not in his father--a power like that he found in +his favourite books. + +“Mind what he says, and do what he tells you, and you'll get on +splendid!” his mother had said as he came away. + +“Don't be afraid of him, but speak up: he'll like you the better for +it,” his father had counselled. “I should never have married your mother +if I'd been afraid of him.” + +Richard, trying to follow both counsels, got on with his grandfather +better than fairly. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. _COMPARISONS._ + +All things belong to every man who yields his selfishness, which is his +one impoverishment, and draws near to his wealth, which is humanity--not +humanity in the abstract, but the humanity of friends and neighbours and +all men. Selfishness, I repeat, whether in the form of vanity or greed, +is our poverty. John Tuke, being a clever man without a spark of genius, +worshipped _faculty_ as he called it--worshipped it where he was most +familiar with it--that is, in his own mind and its operations, in his +own hands and their handiwork. His natural atmosphere, however, was, +happily, goodwill and kindliness: else the scorn of helplessness which +sprang from his worship, would have supplied the other pole to his +selfishness. + +He even cherished unconsciously the feeling that his faculty was a +merit. He took the credit of his individual humanity, as if the good +working of his brain, the thing he most admired, was attributable to his +own will and forethought. The idea had never arisen in that brain, that +he was in the world by no creative intent of his own. Nothing had as yet +suggested to him that, after all, if he was clever, he could not help +it. It had not occurred to him that there was a stage in his history +antecedent to his consciousness--a stage in which his pleasure with +regard to the next could not have been appealed to, or his consent +asked--a stage, for any satisfaction concerning which, his resultant +consciousness must repose on a creative will, answerable to itself +for his existence. A man's patent of manhood is, that he can call upon +God--not the God of any theology, right or wrong, but the God out of +whose heart he came, and in whose heart he is. This is his highest +power--that which constitutes his original likeness to God. Had any one +tried to wake this idea in Tuke, he would have mocked at the sound +of it, never seeing it. The words which represented it he would have +thought he understood, but he would never have laid hold of the idea. +He found himself what he found himself, and was content with the find; +therefore asked no questions as to whence he came--was to himself +consequently as if he had come from nowhere--which made it easy for him +to imagine that he was going nowhither. He had never reflected that +he had not made himself, and that therefore there might be a power +somewhere that had called him into being, and had a word to say to +him on the matter. The region where he began to be, had never, in +speculation or mirage any more than in direct vision, lifted itself +above the horizon-line of his consciousness. An ordinarily well-behaved +man, with a vague narrow regard for his moral nature, and an admiration +of intellectual humanity in the abstract, he thought of himself as +exceptionally worthy, and as having neighbours mostly inferior. In +relation to Richard, he was specially pleased with himself: had he not, +for the sake of the youth, put himself in the danger of the law! + +With not much more introspection than his uncle, but with a keener +conscience and quicker observation, Richard had early remarked that, +notwithstanding her assiduity in church-going, his mother did not seem +the happier for her religion: there was a cloud, or seeming cloud, on +her forehead--a something that implied the lack of clear weather within. +Had he known more he might have attributed it to anxiety about his +own future, and the bearing her deed might have upon it. He might have +argued that she dreaded the opposition she foresaw to the claim of +her nephew; and felt that if her act should have despoiled him of his +inheritance, life would be worthless to her. But in truth the cause of +her habitual gloom was much deeper. She had from her mother inherited a +heavy sense of responsibility, but not the confidence in whose strength +her mother had borne it. She had, that is, an oppressive sense of the +claims of a supernal power, but no feeling of the relationship which +gives those claims, no knowledge of the loving help offered with +the presentation of the claims. Where she might have rejoiced in the +correlative claims bestowed upon her, she nourished only complaint. That +God had made her, she could not sometimes help feeling a liberty he had +taken. How could she help it, not knowing him, or the love that gave him +both the power and the right to create! She had no window to let in the +perpendicular light of heaven; all the light she had was the horizontal +light of duty--invaluable, but, ever accompanied by its own shadow of +failure, giving neither joy nor hope nor strength. Her husband's sense +of duty was neither so strong nor so uneasy. + +She had not attempted to teach Richard more, in the way of religion, +than the saying of certain prayers, a ceremony of questionable +character; but the boy, dearly loving his mother, and saddened by her +lack of spirits, had put things together--amongst the rest, that she was +always gloomiest on a Sunday--and concluded that religion was the cause +of her misery. This made him ready to welcome the merest hint of its +falsehood. Well might the doctrine be false that made such a good woman +miserable! He had no opportunity of learning what any vital, that is, +_obedient_ believer in the lord of religion, might have to say. Nothing +he did hear would, without the reflex of his mother's unhappiness, have +waked in him interest enough for hate: what was there about the heap of +ashes he heard called the means of grace, to set him searching in it for +seeds of truth! If we consider, then, the dullness of the prophecy, the +evident suffering of his mother, and the equally evident though silent +contempt of his father, we need not wonder that Richard grew up in +what seemed to him a conviction that religion was worse than a thing of +nought, was an evil phantom, with a terrible power to blight; a miasm +that had steamed up from the foul marshes of the world, before man was +at home in it, or yet acquainted with the beneficent laws of Nature. +It was not merely a hopeless task to pray to a power which could not be +entreated, because it did not exist; to believe in what was not, must +be ruinous to the nature that so believed! He would give the lie no +quarter! The best thing to do for his fellow, the first thing to be done +before anything else could be done, was to deliver him from this dragon +called Faith--the more fearful that it had no life, but owed its being +and strength to the falsehood of cowards! Had he known more of the +working of what is falsely called religion, he would have been yet more +eager to destroy it. But he knew something of the tares only; he knew +nothing of the wheat among the tares; knew nothing of the wintry gleams +of comfort shed on thousands of hearts by the most poverty-stricken +belief in the merest and faultiest silhouette of a God. What a mission +it would be, he thought, to deliver human hearts from the vampyre that, +sucking away the very essence of life, kept fanning its unconscious +victims with the promise of a dreary existence beyond the grave, secured +by self-immolation on the desolate altar of an unlovable God, who yet +called himself _Love_! Was it not a high emprise to rescue men from the +incubus of such a misimagined divinity? + +From the first dawn of consciousness, the young Lestrange had loved his +kind. He gathered the chief joy of his life from a true relation to the +life around him. Perhaps the cause of the early manifestation of this +bent in him, was the longing of his mother in her loneliness after a +love that grew the move precious as it seemed farther away. She had +parted with those who always loved her, for the love of a man who never +loved her! But left to think and think, she had come at last to see that +her loss was her best gain. For, with the loss of their presence, she +began to know and prize the simplicities of human affection; from lack +of love began to lift up her heart to Love himself, the father of all +our loves. + +Richard's love was not such as makes of another the mirror wherein to +realize self; he loved his kind objectively, and was ready to suffer for +it. At school he was the champion of the oppressed. Almost always one +or other of the little boys would be under his protection; and more than +once, for the sake of a weaker he had got severely beaten. But having +set himself to learn the art of self-defence, his favour alone became +shelter; and successful coverture aroused in him yet more the natural +passion of protection. It became his pride as well as delight to be +a saviour to his kind. His championship now sought extension to his +mother, and to all sufferers from usurping creeds. + +His grandfather found him, as he said, a chip of the old block; and +rejoiced that Nature had granted his humble blood so potent a part +in this compound of gentle and plebeian; for Richard showed himself a +worthy workman! Simon Armour declared there was nothing the fellow could +not do; and said to himself there never was such a baronet in the old +Hall as his boy Dick would make. If only, he said, all the breeds worn +out with breeding-in, would revert to the old blood of Tubal Cain, they +might recover his lease of life. The day was coming, he said to himself, +when there would be a sight to see at Mortgrange--a baronet that could +shoe a horse better than any smith in the land! If his people then would +not stand up for a landlord able to thrash every man-jack of them, and +win his bread with his own hands, they deserved to become the tenants of +a London grocer or American money-dealer! For his part, the French might +have another try! _He_ would not lift hammer against them! + +By right of inheritance, Richard's muscles grew sinewy and hard, and +speedily was he capable of handling a hammer and persuading iron to the +full satisfaction of his teacher. When it came to such heavy work as +required power and skill at once, the difference between the two men was +very evident: where the whole strength is tasked, skill finds itself in +the lurch; but Simon understood what could not be at once, as well as +what would be at length. Neither was he disappointed, for, in far less +than half the time an ordinary apprentice would have taken, Richard +could hold alternate swing with the blacksmith or his man, as, blow +for blow, they pierced a block of metal to form the nave of a wheel. In +ringing a wheel, he soon excelled; and his grandfather's smithy being +the place for all kinds of blacksmith-work, Richard had learned the +trade before he left. For, as his fortnight's holiday drew to an end, +he heard from his parents that, as he was doing so well, they would like +him to stay longer. + +One reason for this their wish was, that he might become thoroughly +attached to his grandfather: they desired to secure the prejudice of the +future baronet for his own people. At the same time, by developing +in him the workman, they thought to give him a better chance against +further dishonouring and degrading his race, than his wretched father +had ever had: the breed of Lestranges must, they said, be searched +back for generations to find an honest man in it. A landlord above the +selfishness, and free from the prejudices of his class, would be a new +thing in the county-histories! + +At the end of six weeks, Richard could shoe a sound horse as well as his +grandfather himself. The old man had taken pains he would not have spent +on an ordinary apprentice: it was worth doing, he said; and the return +was great. Richard had made, not merely wonderful, but wonderfully +steady progress. Not once had he touched the quick in driving those +perfect nails through the rind of the marvellous hoof. From the first he +disapproved of the mode of shoeing in use, and was certain a better must +one day be discovered--one, namely, that would leave the natural motions +of hoof and leg unimpeded; but in the meantime he shod as did other +blacksmiths, and gave thorough satisfaction. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. _A LOST SHOE._ + +It was now late in the autumn. Several houses in the neighbourhood were +full of visitors, and parties on horseback frequently passed the door of +the smithy--well known to not a few of the horses. + +One evening, as the sun was going down red and large, with a gorgeous +attendance of clouds, for the day had been wet but cleared in the +afternoon, a small mounted company came pretty fast along the lane, +which was deep in mud. They were no sooner upon the hard road by the +smithy, than one of the ladies discovered her mare had lost a hind shoe. + +“She couldn't have pulled it off in a more convenient spot!” said a +handsome young fellow, as he dismounted and gave his horse to a groom. +“I'll take you down, Bab! Old Simon will have a shoe on Miss Brown in no +time!” + +Richard followed his grandfather to the door. A little girl, as she +seemed to him, was sliding, with her hand on the young man's shoulder, +from the back of the huge mare. She was the daintiest little thing, +as lovely as she was tiny, with clear, pale, regular features, under a +quantity of dark-brown hair. But that she was not a child, he saw the +moment she was down; and he soon discovered that, not her beauty, but +her heavenly vivacity, was the more captivating thing in her. At once +her very soul seemed to go out to meet whatever object claimed her +attention. She must know all about everything, and come into relations +with every live thing! As she stood by the side of the great brown +creature from which she had dismounted--huge indeed, but carrying its +bulk with a grand grace--her head reaching but half-way up the slope of +its shoulder, she laid her cheek against it caressingly. So small and so +bright, the little lady looked a very diamond of life. + +A new shoe had to be forged; those already half-made were for +work-horses. Partly from pride in his skill, Simon left the task to his +grandson, and stood talking to the young man. Little thought Richard, as +he turned the shoe on the anvil's beak, that he was his half-brother! +He was a handsome youth, not so tall as Richard, and with more +delicate features. His face was pale, and wore a rather serious, but +self-satisfied look. He talked to the old blacksmith, however, without +the slightest assumption: like others in the neighbourhood, he regarded +him as odd and privileged. There were more ladies and gentlemen, but +Richard, absorbed in his shoe, heeded none of the company. + +He was not more absorbed, however, than the girl who stood beside him: +she watched every point in the making of it. Heedless of the flying +sparks, she gazed as if she meant to make the next shoe herself. Had +Richard not been too busy even to glance at her, he might have noticed, +now and then, an involuntary sympathetic motion, imitatively responsive +to one of his, invariably recurrent when he changed the position of the +glowing iron. Her mind seemed working in company with his hands; she was +all the time doing the thing herself; Richard's activity was not merely +reflected, but lived in her. When he carried the half-forged iron, to +apply it for one tentative instant to the mare's hoof, Barbara followed +him. The mare fidgeted. But her little mistress, who, noiseless and +swift as a moth, was already at her head, spoke to her, breathed in her +nostril, and in a moment made her forget what was happening in such a +far-off province of her being as a hind foot. When Richard, back at +the forge, was placing the shoe again in the fire, to his surprise her +little gloved hand alighted beside his own on the lever of the bellows, +powerfully helping him to blow. When once again the shoe was on the +anvil, there again she stood watching--and watched until he had shaped +the shoe to his intent. + +Old Simon did not move to interfere: the hoof required no special +attention. Almost every horse-hoof in a large circuit of miles was known +to him--as well, he would remark, as the nail of his own thumb. + +When Richard took up the foot, in order to prepare it for the reception +of its new armour, again the mare was fidgety; and again the lady +distracted her attention, comforting and soothing her while Richard +trimmed the hoof a little. + +“I say, my man,” cried Mr. Lestrange, “mind what you're about there +with your paring! I don't want that mare lamed.--She's much too good for +'prentice hands to learn upon, Simon!” + +“Keep your mind easy, sir,” answered the blacksmith. “That lad's ain't +'prentice hands. He knows what he's about as well as I do myself!” + +“He's young!” + +“Younger, perhaps, than you think, sir!--but he knows his work.” + +It was a pretty picture--the girl peeping round under the neck of the +great creature she was caressing, to see how the smith was getting on, +whose back, alas! hid his hands from her. Just as he finished driving +his second nail, the nervous animal gave her foot a jerk, and the point +of the nail, through the hoof and projecting a little, tore his hand, so +that the blood ran to the ground in a sudden rivulet. + +“Hey! that don't look much like proper shoeing!” cried the young man. “I +hope to goodness that's not the mare!” + +“She's all right,” answered Richard, rearranging the animal's foot. + +But Simon saw the blood, and sprang to his side. + +“What the devil are you about, making a fool of me, Dick!” he cried. +“Get out of the way.” + +“It was my fault,” said the sweetest voice from under the neck of the +mare, to the top of which a tiny hand was trying to reach. “My feather +must have tickled her nose!” + +She caught a glimpse of the blood, and turned white. + +“I am so sorry!” she said, almost tearfully. “I hope you're not much +hurt, Richard!” + +Nothing seemed to escape her; she had already learned his name! + +“It's not worth being sorry about, miss!” returned Richard, with a +laugh. “The mare meant no harm!” + +“That I'm sure she didn't--poor Miss Brown!” answered the girl, patting +the mare's neck. “But I wish it had been _my_ hand instead!” + +“God forbid!” cried Richard. “That _would_ have been a calamity!” + +“It wouldn't have been half so great a one. My hand is--well, not of +_much_ use. Yours can shoe a horse!” + +“Yours would have been spoiled; mine will shoe as well as before!” said +Richard. + +It did not occur to the lady that the youth spoke better than might have +been expected of a country smith. She was one of the elect few that meet +every one on the common human ground, that never fear and never hurt. +Her childish size and look harmonized with the childlike in her style, +but she affected nothing. She would have spoken in the same way to +prince or poet-laureate, and would have pleased either as much as the +blacksmith. At the same time she did have pleasure in knowing that +her frankness pleased. She could not help being aware that she was a +favourite, and she wanted to be; but she wanted nothing more than to be +a favourite. She desired it with old Betty, sir Wilton's dairymaid, just +as much as with Mr. Lestrange, sir Wilton's heir; and everybody showed +her favour, for she showed everybody grace. + +The old smith was finishing the shoeing, and the mare, well used to him, +and with more faith in him, stood perfectly quiet. Richard, a little +annoyed, had withdrawn, and scarce thinking what he did, had taken a +rod of iron, thrust it into the fire, and begun to blow. The little lady +approached him softly. + +“I'm _so_ sorry!” she said. + +“I shall be sorry too, if you think of it any more, miss!” answered +Richard. “Then there will be two sorry where there needn't be one!” + +She looked up at him with a curious, interested, puzzled look, which +seemed to say, “What a nice smith you are!” + +The youth's manners had a certain--what shall I call it?--not polish, +but rhythm, which came of, or at least was nourished by his love of +the finer elements in literature. His friendly converse with books, and +through them with certain of the dead who still speak, fell in with yet +deeper influences, helping to set him in right atomic position toward +other human atoms. His breed also contributed something. Happily for +Richard, a man is not born only of his father or his grandfather; +mothers have a share in the form of his being; ancestors innumerable, +men and women, leave their traces in him. But what I have ventured to +call the rhythm of his manner came of his love of verse, and of the true +material of verse. + +His hand kept on bleeding, and for a moment he was tempted, by bravado +as well as kindness, to use the cautery so nigh, and prove to the girl +how little he set by what troubled her; but he saw at once it would +shock her, and took, instead, a handkerchief from his pocket to bind it +with. Instantly the little lady was at his service, and he yielded to +her ministration with a pleasure hitherto unknown to him. She took the +handkerchief from his hand, but immediately gave it him again, saying, +“It is too black!” and drawing her own from her pocket, deftly bound up +his wound with it. Speech abandoned Richard. All present looked on in +silence. Certain of the company had seen her the day before tie up +the leg of a wounded dog, and had admired her for it; but this +was different! She was handling the hand of a human being--man--a +workman!--black and hard with labour! There was no necessity: the man +was not in the least danger! It was nothing but a scratch! She was +forgetting what was due to herself--and to them! Thus they thought, but +thus they dared not speak. They knew her, and feared what she might say +in reply. The mare was shod ere the handkerchief was tied to the lady's +mind, and Simon stood, hammer in hand, looking on like the rest in +silence, but with a curious smile. + +As she took her hands from his, the young blacksmith looked thankfulness +into her eyes--which sparkled and shone with the pleasure of human +fellowship, and without the least shyness returned his gaze. + +“There! Good-bye! I am so sorry! I hope your hand will be well soon!” + she said, and at once followed her mare, which the smith's man was +leading with caution through the door of the smithy, rather too low for +Miss Brown. + +Lestrange helped her to the saddle in silence, and before Richard +realized that she was gone, he heard the merriment of the party mingling +with the clang of their horses' hoofs, as they went swinging down the +road. The fairy had set them all laughing already! + +The instant they were gone, Simon showed a strange concern over the +insignificant wound: he had been hasty with Richard, and unfair to him! +Had he driven his nail one hair's-breadth too near the quick, Miss Brown +would have made the smithy tight for them! He seemed anxious to show, +without actual confession, that he knew he had spoken angrily, and +was sorry for it. He could not have shod the mare better himself, he +said--but why the deuce did he let her tear his hand! It was not likely +to gather, though, seeing Richard drank water! He must do nothing for +a day or two! To-morrow being Saturday, they would have a holiday +together, and leave the work to George! + + + + +CHAPTER IX. _A HOLIDAY._ + +Richard was willing enough, and it only remained to settle what they +would do with their holiday. Suppressing a chuckle, Simon proposed that +they should have a walk, and a look at Mortgrange: it was a place well +worth seeing! “And then,” he added, giving his grandson a poke, “we can +ask after the mare, and learn how her new shoe fits.” They had known him +there, he said, the last thirty years, and would let them have the run +of the place, for sir Wilton and his lady were from home. Richard had +never--to his knowledge--heard of Mortgrange, for Simon had hitherto +avoided even mentioning the place; but he was ready to go wherever his +grandfather pleased. Jessie would have company of her own, Simon said, +with a nod and a wink: they need not trouble themselves about her! + +So the next day, as soon us they had had their breakfast, they set out +to walk the four or five miles that, by the road, lay between them and +Mortgrange. It was a fine frosty morning. Not a few yellow leaves were +still hanging, and the sun was warm and bright. It was one of those days +near the death of the year, that make us wonder why the heart of man +should revive and feel strong, while nature is falling into her dreary +trance. Richard was dressed in a tradesman's Sunday clothes, but +tradesman as he was, and was proud to be, he did not altogether look +one. He was in high spirits--for no reason but that his spirits were +high. He was happy because he was happy--“like any other body!” he would +have said: where was the wonder such a fine day, with a pleasant walk +before him, and his jolly grandfather for company! That he could not +make one hair white or black, one hour blessed or miserable, did not +occur to him. Yet he believed that joy or sorrow determined whether life +was or was not worth living! He had never said to himself, “Here I am, +and cannot help being, and yet can order nothing! Even to-day I am happy +only because I cannot help it!” He had indeed begun to learn that a man +has his duty to mind before his happiness, and that was much; but he +had not yet been tried in the matter of doing his duty when unhappy. How +would he feel then? Would he think duty without happiness worth living +for? He was happy now, and that was enough! The putting forth of their +strength and skill doubtless makes many men feel happy--so long as they +are in health; but how when they come to feel that that health is nowise +in their power? While they have it, it seems a part of their being +inalienable; when they have lost it, a thing irrecoverable. Richard took +the thing that came, asked no questions, returned no thanks. He found +himself here:--whence he came he did not care; whither he went he did +not inquire. The present was enough, for the present was good; when the +present was no longer good, why, then,--! + +There are those to whom the present cannot be good save as a mode of +the infinite. In such their divine origin asserts itself. Once known for +what it is, the poorest present is a phial holding the elixir of life. + +On their way Simon talked about the place they were going to see, and +said its present owner was an elderly man, not very robust, with a +second wife, who looked as if she had not a drop of warm blood, and yet +as if she might live for ever. + +“That was their son that came with the little lady,” he said. + +“And the little lady was their daughter, I suppose!” rejoined Richard, +with an odd quiver somewhere near his heart. + +“She's an Australian, they say,” answered his grandfather; “--no +relation, I fancy.” + +“Is Mortgrange a grand place?” asked Richard. + +“It's a fine house and a great estate,” answered Simon. “More might be +made of it, no doubt; and I hope one day more will be made of it.” + +“What do you mean by that, grandfather?” + +“That I hope the son will make a better landlord than the father.” + +They came to a great iron gate, standing open, without any lodge. + +“We're in luck!” said the blacksmith. “This will save us a long round! +Somebody must have rode out, and been too lazy to shut it! We'd better +leave it as we find it, though! Or say we bring the two halves together +without snapping the locks! I know the locks; I put 'em both on +myself.--See now what a piece of work that gate is! All done with the +hand! None o' your beastly casting there! Up to _your_ work, that, I'm +thinking, lad!” + +“Indeed it is! Those gates are worth reducing, for plates to stamp the +covers of a right precious volume with!” + +Simon misunderstood, and was on the point of flaring up, but what +Richard followed with quieted him. + +“I could almost give up bookbinding to work a pair of gates like those!” + he said. + +“I believe you, my boy!” returned his grandfather. “Come and live with +me, and you shall!” + +“But who would buy them when I had worked them?” + +“If nobody had the sense, we'd put 'em up before the cottage!” + +“Like a door-lock on a prayer-book!” + +“No matter! They would be worth the worth of themselves!” + +“You would have to make the wall so high, there would be no light in the +house!” persisted Richard. + +“Tut, man! did you never hear of a joke? All I say is, that if you'll +come and work with me--I don't need to slave more than I like; I've got +a few pounds in the bank!--if you'll work, I'll teach you. Leave me +to find a fit place for what comes of it! They do most things at the +foundries now, but there's a market yet for hammer-work--if it be good +enough, and not too dear; for them as knows a good thing when they sees +it, ain't generally got much money to buy things. It's my opinion the +only way to learn the worth of a thing, is to have to go without it.” + +“Few people fancy iron gates, I fear.” + +“More might fancy them if they were to be had good,” returned the old +man. + +The gate had admitted them to a long winding road, with clumps of trees +here and there on the borders of it. The road was apparently not much +used, for it was more than sprinkled with grass all over. A ploughed +field was on one side, and a wild heathy expanse, dotted with fir-trees, +on the other. Suddenly on the side of the field, gradually on that of +the heath, the ground changed to the green sward of a park. + +“A grand place for thinking!” said Richard to himself. + +But in truth Richard had hardly yet begun to think. He only followed the +things that came to him; he never said to things, _Come;_ neither, when +they came, did he keep them, and make them walk up and down before him +till he saw what they were; he did not search out their pedigree, get +them to give an account of themselves, show what they could do, or, +in short, be themselves to him. He had written a few verses--not bad +verses, but with feeling only, not thought in them. For instance, he had +addressed an ode to the allegorical personage called Liberty, in which +he bepraised her until, had she been indeed a woman, she must have been +ashamed: she was the one essential of life! the one glory of existence! +he was no man who would not die for her! But what was the thing he thus +glorified? Liberty to go where you pleased, do what you liked, say what +you chose!--that was all. Of inward liberty, of freedom from mental +or spiritual oppression, from passion, from prejudice, from envy, from +jealousy, from selfishness, from unfairness, from ambition, from false +admiration, from the power of public opinion, from any motive energy +save that of love and truth--a freedom of which outward freedom is +scarce the shadow--of such liberty, for all the good books he had read, +for all the good poems he had admired, Richard had not yet begun to +dream, not to say _think_. Then again, he would write about love, and he +had never been in love in his life! All he knew of love was the pleasure +of imagining himself the object of a tall, dark-eyed, long-haired, +devoted woman's admiration. He had never even thought whether he was +worthy of being loved. He was indeed more worthy of love than many to +whom it is freely given; but he knew no more about it, I say, than a +chicken in the shell knows of the blue sky. The shabby spinster, living +with her cousin the baker in the house opposite, knew a hundred times +better than he what the word _love_ meant: she had a history, he had +none. + +I will not describe the house of Mortgrange. It seemed to Richard the +oldest house he had ever seen, and it moved him strangely. He said to +himself the man must be happy who called such a house his own, lived in +it, and did what he liked with it. The road they had taken brought them +to the back of the Hall, as the people on the estate called the house. +The blacksmith went to a side-door, and asked if he and his grandson +might have a look at the place: he had heard the baronet was from home! +The man said he would see; and returning presently, invited them to walk +in. + +Knowing his grandson's passion, Simon's main thought in taking him was +to see him in the library, with its ten thousand volumes: it would be +such a joke to watch him pondering, admiring, coveting his own! As soon, +therefore, as they were in the great hall, he asked the servant whether +they might not see the library. The man left them again, once more to +make inquiry. + +It was a grand old hall where they stood, fitter for the house of a +great noble than a mere baronet; but then the family was older than any +noble family in the county, and the poor baronetcy, granted to a +foolish ancestor, on carpet considerations, by the needy hand of the +dominie-king, was no great feather in the cap of the Lestranges. The +house itself was older than any baronetcy, for no part of it was later +than the time of Elizabeth. It was of fine stone, and of great size. The +hall was nearly sixty feet in height, with three windows on one side, +and a great one at the end. They were thirty feet from the floor, had +round heads, and looked like church-windows. The other side was blank. +Mid-height along the end opposite the great window ran a gallery. + +To the sudden terror of Richard, who stood absorbed in the stateliness +of the place, an organ in the gallery burst out playing. He looked +up trembling, but could see only the tops of the pipes. As the sounds +rolled along the roof, reverberated from the solid walls, and crept +about the corners, it seemed to him that the soul of the place was +throbbing in his ears the words of a poem centuries old, which he had +read a day or two before leaving London:-- + +“Erthe owte of erthe es wondirly wroghte, Erthe hase getyn one erthe a +dignyte of noghte, Erthe appone erthe hase sett alle his thoghte, How +that erthe appone erthe may be heghe broghte.” + +As he listened, his eyes settled upon a suit of armour in position: it +became to him a man benighted, lost, forgotten in the cold; the bones +were all dusted out of him by the wintry winds; only the shell of him +was left. + +“Mr. Lestrange is in the library, and will see Mr. Armour,” said the +voice of the servant. + +An election was at hand, and at such a time certain persons are more +courteous than usual. + + + + +CHAPTER X. _THE LIBRARY_. + +Simon and Richard followed the man through a narrow door in the thick +wall, across a wide passage, and then along a narrow one. A door was +thrown open, and they stepped into a sombre room. The floor of the hall +was of great echoing slabs of stone, but now their feet sank in the deep +silence of a soft carpet. + +Here a new awe, dwelling, however, in an air of homeliness, awoke in +Richard. Around him, from floor to ceiling, was ranged a whole army of +books, mostly in fine old bindings; in spite of open window and great +fire and huge chimney, the large lofty room was redolent of them. Their +odour, however, was not altogether pleasing to Richard, whose practised +organ detected in it the signs of a blamable degree of decay. The faint +effluvia of decomposing paper, leather, paste, and glue, were to Richard +as the air of an ill-ventilated ward in the nostrils of a physician. He +sniffed and made an involuntary grimace: he had not seen Mr. Lestrange, +who was close to him, half hidden by a bookcase that stood out from the +wall. + +“Good morning, Armour!” said Lestrange. “Your young man does not seem to +relish books!” + +“In a grand place like this, sir,” remarked Richard, taking answer +upon himself, “such a library as I never saw, except, of course, at +the British Museum, it makes a man sorry to discover indications of +neglect.” + +“What do you mean?” returned Lestrange in displeasure. + +Richard's remark was the more offensive that his superior style issued +in a comparatively common tone. Neither was there anything in the +appearance of the place to justify it. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, fearing he had been rude, “but I am a +bookbinder!” + +“Well?” rejoined Lestrange, taking him now for a sneaking tradesman on +the track of a big job. + +“I know at once the condition of an old book by the smell of it,” + pursued Richard. “The moment I came in, I knew there must be some +here in a bad way--not in their clothes merely, but in their bodies as +well--the paper of them, I mean. Whether a man has what they call a soul +or not, a book certainly has: the paper and print are the body, and +the binding is the clothes. A gentleman I know--but he's a mystic--goes +farther, and says the paper is the body, the print the soul, and the +meaning the spirit.” + +A pretty fellow to be an atheist! my reader may well think. + +Mr. Lestrange stared. He must be a local preacher, this blacksmith, this +bookbinder, or whatever he was! + +“I am sorry you think the books hypocrites,” he said. “They look all +right!” he added, casting his eyes over the shelves before him. + +“Would you mind me taking down one or two?” asked Richard. “My hands are +rather black, but the colour is ingrain, as Spenser might say.” + +“Do so, by all means,” answered Lestrange, curious to see how far the +fellow could support with proof the accuracy of his scent. + +Richard moved three paces, and took down a volume--one of a set, +the original edition in quarto of “The Decline and Fall,” bound in +russia-leather. + +“I thought so!” he said; “going!--going!--Look at the joints of +this Gibbon, sir. That's always the way with russia--now-a-days, at +least!--Smell that, grandfather! Isn't it sweet? But there's no stay in +it! Smell that joint! The leather's stone-dead!--It's the rarest thing +to see a volume bound in russia, of which the joints are not broken, or +at least cracking. These joints, you see, are gone to powder! All russia +does--sooner or later, whatever be the cause.--Just put that joint to +your nose, sir! That's part of what you smell so strong in the room.” + +He held out the book to him, but Lestrange drew back: it was not fit his +nose should stoop to the request of a tradesman! + +Richard replaced the book, and took down one after another of the same +set. + +“Every one, you see, sir,” he said, “going the same way! Dust to dust!” + +“If they're _all_ going that way,” remarked the young man, “it would +cost every stick on the estate to rebind them!” + +“I should be sorry to rebind any of them. An old binding is like an old +picture! Just look at this French binding! It's very dingy, and a good +deal broken, but you never see anything like that nowadays--as mellow +as modest, and as rich as roses! Here's one says the same thing as your +grand hall out there, only in a piping voice.” + +Lestrange was not exactly stuck-up; he had feared the fellow was +bumptious, and felt there was no knowing what he might say next, but +by this time had ceased to imagine his dignity in danger. The young +blacksmith's admiration of the books and of the hall pleased him, and he +became more cordial. + +“Do you say _all_ russia-leather behaves in the same fashion?” he asked. + +“Yes, now. I fancy it did not some years ago. There may be some change +in the preparation of the leather. I don't know. It is a great pity! +Russia is lovely to the eye--and to the nostrils.--May I take a look at +some of the _old_ books, sir?” + +“What do you call an _old_ book?” + +“One not later, say, than the time of James the First.--Have you a first +folio, sir?” + +Lestrange was thinking of his coming baronetcy. + +“First folio?” he answered absently. “I dare say you will find a good +many first folios on the shelves!” + +“I mean the folio Shakespeare of 1623. There are, of course, many folios +much scarcer! I saw one the other day that the booksellers themselves +gave eight hundred guineas for!” + +“What was it?” asked Lestrange carelessly. + +“It was a wonderful copy--unique as to condition--of Gower's _Confessio +Amantis;_--not a _very_ interesting book, though I do not doubt +Shakespeare was fond of it. You see Shakespeare could hear the stones +preaching!” + +“By Jove, a man may hear the sticks do that any Sunday!” + +“True enough, sir, ha-ha!” + +“Have you read Gower, then?” + +“A good deal of him.” + +“Was it that same precious copy you read him in?” + +“It was; but I hadn't time for more than about the half. I must finish +on another edition, I fear.” + +“How did you get hold of a book of such value?” + +“The booksellers who bought it, asked me to take it into my hospital. It +wanted just a little, a very little patching. The copy in the museum is +not to compare to it.” + +“You say it was not interesting?” + +“Not _very_ interesting, I said, sir.” + +“Why did you read so much of it, then?” + +“When a book is hard to come at, you are the more ready to read it when +you have the chance.” + +“I suppose that's why one borrows his neighbour's books and don't read +his own! I seldom take one down from those shelves.” + +Richard felt as if a wall was broken down between them. + +All the time they talked, old Simon stood beside, pleased to note how +well his grandson could hold up the ball with the young squire, but +saying nothing. If the matter had been hoof of horse, cow, or ass, +he would not have been silent: he knew hoofs better than Richard knew +books. + +Richard took down a small folio, the back of which looked much too soft +and loose. Opening it, he found what he expected--a wreck. It was hardly +fit to be called any more a book. The clothes had forsaken the body, or +rather the body had decayed away from the clothes. + +“Now, look here!” he said. “Here is Cowley's Poems--in such a state that +I doubt if anything would ever make a book of it again. I thought by the +back all was wrong inside! See how the leaves have come away singly: the +paper itself is rotten! I doubt if there is any way to make paper so far +gone as this hold together. I know a good deal can be done, and I must +learn what is known. I shan't be master of my trade till I know all that +can be done now to stop such a book from crumbling into dust! Then I may +find out something more!” + +“Well, for that one, I don't think it matters: Cowley ain't much!” said +Lestrange, throwing the volume on a table. “I remember once taking down +the book, and trying to read some of it: I could not; it's the dullest +rubbish ever written.” + +“It's not so bad as that, sir!” answered Richard, and taking up the book +he turned the leaves with light, practiced hand. “He was counted the +greatest poet of his day, and no age loves dullness! Listen a moment, +sir; I will read only one stanza.” + +He had found the “Hymn to the Light,” and read:-- + +“First born of _Chaos_, who so fair didst come From the old Negro's +darksome womb! Which when it saw the lovely Child, The melancholy Mass +put on kind looks and smil'd.” + +“I don't see much in that!” said Lestrange, as Richard closed the book, +and glanced up expectant. + +Richard was silent for an instant. + +“At any rate,” he returned, “it is necessary to the understanding of our +history, that we should know the kind of thing admired and called good +at any given time of it: so our lecturer at King's used to tell us.” + +“At King's!” cried Lestrange. + +“King's college, London, I mean,” said Richard. “They have evening +classes there, to which a man can go after his day's work. My father +always took care I should have time for anything I wanted to do. I go +still when I am at home--not always, but when the lecturer takes up any +special subject I want to know more about.” + +“You'll be an author yourself some day, I suppose!” + +“There's little hope or fear of that, sir! But I can't bear not to know +what's in my very hands. I can't be content with the outsides of the +books I bind. It seems a shame to come so near light and never see it +shine. If I were a tailor, I should learn anatomy. I know one tailor +who is as familiar with the human form as any sculptor in London--more, +perhaps!” + +Lestrange began to feel uncomfortable. If he let this prodigy go on +talking and asking questions, he would find out how little he knew about +anything! But Richard was no prodigy. He was only a youth capable of +interest in everything, with the stimulus of not finding the fountains +of knowledge at his very door, and the aid of having to work all day at +some pleasant task, nearly associated with higher things that he loved +better. He did know a good deal for his age, but not so very much for +his opportunity, his advantages being great. Most men who learn would +learn more, I suspect, if they had work to do, and difficulty in the +way of learning. Those counted high among Richard's advantages. He +was, besides, considerably attracted by the mechanics of literature--a +department little cultivated by those who have most need of what grows +in it. + +Further talk followed. Lestrange grew interested in the phenomenon of +a blacksmith that bound books and read them. He began to dream of +patronage and responsive devotion. What a thing it would be for him, +in after years, with the cares of property and parliament combining to +curtail his leisure, to have such a man at his beck, able to gather the +information he desired, and to reduce, tabulate, and embody it so as +to render his chief the best-informed man in the House! while at other +times he would manage for him his troublesome tenants, and upon occasion +shoe his wife's favourite horse! He could also depend upon him to +provide, from the rich stores of his memory, suitable quotations when he +wished to make a speech! Lestrange had never thought whether the wish to +_appear_ might not indicate the duty to _be_; had never seen that, until +he _was_, to desire to _appear_ was to cherish the soul of a sneak. He +had no notion of anything but the look; no notion that, having made a +good speech, he would deserve an atom the less praise for it that he +could not have made it without his secretary. Did any one think the less +of clearing a five-barred gate, he would have answered, that it could +not be done without a horse? Where was the difference? A man you paid to +be your secretary, still more a man whose education to be your secretary +you had paid for--was he not yours in a way at least analogous to that +in which a horse was yours? He could break away from you more easily, +no doubt, but a man knew better than a horse on which side his bread was +buttered! + +“I think, squire, I'll go and have a pipe with the coachman!” said the +blacksmith at length. + +“As you please, Armour,” answered Lestrange. “I will take care of +your--nephew, is he?” + +“My grandson, sir--from London.” + +“All right! There's good stuff in the breed, Armour!--I will bring him +to you.” + +Richard went on taking down book after book, and showing his host how +much they required attention. + +“And you could set all right for--?--for how much?” asked Lestrange. + +“That no one could say. It would, however, cost little more than time +and skill. The material would not come to much. Only, where the paper +itself is in decay, I do not know about that. I have learned nothing in +that department yet.” + +“For generations none of us have cared about books--that must be why +they have gone so to the bad!--the books, I mean,” he added with a +laugh. “There was a bishop, and I think there was a poet, somewhere +in the family; but my father--hm!--I doubt if he would care to lay out +money on the library!” + +“Tell him,” suggested Richard, “that it is a very valuable library--at +least so it appears to me from the little I have seen of it; but I am +sure of this, that it is rapidly sinking in value. After another twenty +years of neglect it would not fetch half the price it might easily be +brought up to now.” + +“I don't know that that would weigh much with him. So long as he sees +the shelves full, and the book-backs all right, he won't want anything +better. He cares only how things look.” + +“But the whole look of the library is growing worse--gradually, it is +true, and in a measure it can't be helped--but faster than you would +think, and faster than it ought. The backs, which, from a library point +of view, are the faces of the books, may, up to a certain moment, look +well, and after that go much more rapidly. I fear damp is getting at +these from somewhere!” + +“Would you undertake to set all right, if my father made you a +reasonable offer?” + +“I would--provided I found no injury beyond the scope of my experience.” + +Richard spoke in book-fashion: he was speaking about books, and to a +social superior! he was not really pompous. + +“Well, if my father should come to see the thing as I do, I will let you +know. Then will be the time for a definite understanding!” + +“The best way would be that I should come and work for a set time: by +the progress I made, and what I cost, you could judge.” + +Lestrange rang the bell, and ordered the attendant to take the young man +to his grandfather. + +The two wandered together over the grounds, and Richard saw much to +admire and wonder at, but nothing to approach the hall or the library. + +On their way home, Simon, to his grandson's surprise, declared himself +in favour of his working at the Mortgrange library. But the idea +tickled his fancy so much, that Richard wondered at the oddity of his +grandfather's behaviour. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. _ALICE._ + +Soon after his visit to Mortgrange, the young bookbinder went home, +recalled at last by his parents. John Tuke was shocked with the hardness +and blackness of his hands, and called his wife's attention to them. +She, however, perhaps from nearer alliance with the smithy, professed to +regard their condition as by no means a serious matter. She could not, +nevertheless, quite conceal her regret, for she was proud of her boy's +hands. + +Richard supposed of course that his father's annoyance came only from +the fear that his touch would be no longer sufficiently delicate for +certain parts of his work; and certainly, when he looked at them, he +thought the points of his fingers were broader than before, and was a +little anxious lest they should have lost something of their cunning. +He did not know that mechanical faculty, for fine work as well as rough, +goes in general with square-pointed fingers. Delicately tapered fingers, +whatever they may indicate in the way of artistic invention, are not +the fingers of the painter or the sculptor. The finest fingers of the +tapering kind I have ever seen, were those of a distinguished chemist of +the last generation. Eager to satisfy both his father and himself, that +the hands of the bookmender had not degenerated more than his skill +could counteract, Richard selected, from a few that were waiting his +return, the book worthiest of his labour, set to work, and by a thorough +success quickly effected his purpose. + +He was now, however, anxious, before doing anything else, to learn all +that was known for the restoration and repair of the insides of books. +In this an old-bookseller, a friend of his father, was able to give +him no little help, putting him up to wrinkles not a few. Richard was +surprised to see how, with a penknife, on a bit of glass, he would pare +the edge of a scrap of paper to half the thickness, in order to place +two such edges together, and join them without a scar. He taught him how +to clean letterpress and engravings from ferruginous, fungous, and other +kinds of spots. He made him acquainted with a process which considerably +strengthened paper that had become weak in its cohesion; and when +Richard would make further experiment, he supplied him with valueless +letterpress to work upon. His time was thus more than ever occupied. For +many weeks he scarcely even read. + +It was not long, however, before he bethought him that he must see +Arthur. He went the same evening to call on him, but found other people +in the house, who could tell him nothing about the family that had left. +His aunt said she had seen Alice once, and knew they were going, but did +not know where they were gone. Richard would have inquired at the house +in the City where Arthur was employed, but he did not know even the name +of the firm. Once, from the top of an omnibus, he saw him--in the same +shabby old comforter, looking feebler and paler and more depressed than +ever; but when he got down, he had lost sight of him, and though he ran +hither and thither, looking up this street and that, he recovered no +glimpse of him. The selfish mother and the wasting children came back to +him vividly as he walked sadly home. + +He had counted Alice the nicest girl he had ever seen, but since going +to the country had not thought much about her; and now, since seeing +the fairy-like lady with the big brown mare, he had a higher idea of +the feminine. But although therefore he would not have thought the pale, +sweet-faced dressmaker quite so pleasing as before, he would, because +of the sad look into which her countenance always settled, have felt her +quite as interesting. + +Richard had not yet arrived at any readiness to fall in love. It is well +when this readiness is delayed until the individuality is sufficiently +developed to have its own demands. I venture to think one cause of +unhappiness in marriages is, that each person's peculiar self, was not, +at the time of engagement, sufficiently grown for a natural selection +of the suitable, that is, the _correspondent;_ and that the development +which follows is in most cases the development of what is reciprocally +non-correspondent, and works for separation and not approximation. +The only thing to overcome this or any other disjunctive power, is +development in the highest sense, that is, development of the highest +and deepest in us--which can come only by doing right. The man who is +growing to be one with his own nature, that is, one with God who is +the _naturing_ nature, is coming nearer and nearer to every one of his +fellow-beings. This may seem a long way round to love, but it is the +only road by which we can arrive at true love of any kind; and he who +does not walk in it, will one day find himself on the verge of a gulf of +hate. + +Individuality, forestalled by indifference, had no chance of keeping sir +Wilton and lady Ann apart, but certainly had done nothing to bring +them together. Where all is selfishness on both sides, what other +correspondences may exist will hardly come into play. The loss of the +unloved heir had perhaps done a little to approximate them; but they +speedily ceased to hold any communication of ideas on the matter. +As they did nothing to recover him, so they seemed to take almost no +thought as to his existence or non-existence. If he were alive, neither +father nor stepmother had the least desire to discover him. Answering +honestly, each would have chosen that he should remain unheard of. As to +the possibility of his dying in want, or being brought up in wickedness, +that did not trouble either of them. His stepmother did not think +the more tenderly of another woman's child that she cared for her own +children only because they were hers. If you could have got the idea +into the pinched soul of lady Ann, that the human race is one family, +it would but have enhanced her general dislike, her feeble enmity to +humanity. When she did or said anything to displease him, sir Wilton +would sometimes hint at a new advertisement, but she did not much heed +the threat. On the whole, however, they had got on better than might +have been expected, partly in virtue of her sharp tongue and her thick +skin, which combination of the offensive and defensive put sir Wilton +at a disadvantage: however sharp his retort might be, she never felt it, +but went on; and harping does not always mean such pleasant music, +that you want to keep the harper awake. She had brought him four +children--Arthur, the one whose acquaintance Richard had made, a younger +brother who promised foully, and two girls--the elder common in feature +and slow in wits, but with eyes and a heart; the younger clever and +malicious. + +One stormy winter night, as Richard was returning from a house in Park +Crescent, to which he had carried home a valuable book restored to +strength and some degree of aged beauty, from one of the narrow openings +on the east side of Regent Street, came a girl, fighting with the +wind and a weak-ribbed umbrella, and ran buffeted against him, +notwithstanding his endeavour to leave her room. The collision was very +slight, but she looked up and begged his pardon. It was Alice. Before he +could speak, she gave a cry, and went from him in blind haste as fast +as she could go; but with the fierce wind, her perturbation, and the +unruliness of the umbrella, which she was vainly trying to close that +she might run the better, she struck full against a lamp-post, and stood +like one stunned and on the point of falling. Richard, however, was +close behind her, and put an arm round her. She did not resist; she was +indeed but half-conscious. The same moment he saw a cab and hailed it. +The man heard and came. Richard lifted her into it, and got in after +her. But Alice came to herself, got up, and leaning out of the cab on +the street side, tried to open the door. Richard caught her, drew her +back, and made her sit down again. + +“Richard! Richard!” she cried, as she yielded to his superior strength, +and burst into tears, “where are you taking me?” + +“Wherever you like, Alice. You shall tell the cabman yourself. What is +the matter with you? Don't be angry with me. It is not my fault that +I have not been to see you and Arthur. You went away, and nobody could +tell me where to find you! Give the cabman your address, Alice.” + +“I'm not going home,” sobbed Alice. + +“Where are you going, then? I will go with you. You're not fit to go +anywhere alone! I'm afraid you're badly hurt!” + +“No, no! Do let me out. Indeed, indeed, you must!” + +“Well, then, I won't! You'll drop down and be left to the police! It's +horrible to think of you out in such a night! Come home with me. If you +are in any trouble, my mother will help you.” + +Here Alice, who had yielded to the pressure with which Richard held her, +broke from him, and pushed him away. Richard put his other arm across, +and laid hold of the door of the cab, telling the man to get up on his +box, and have a little patience. He obeyed, and Richard turned again to +Alice. + +“Richard,” she said, “your mother would kill me!” + +“Nonsense!” he rejoined; “what a fancy! My mother!” + +“I've seen her since you went. She made me promise--” + +But there Alice stopped, and Richard could get from her nothing but +entreaties to be let out. + +“If you don't,” she said at last, growing desperate, “I will scream.” + +“Let me take you at least, then, a little nearer where you want to go,” + pleaded Richard. + +“No! no I set me down.” + +“Tell me where you live.” + +“I daren't.” + +“I must see my old friend, Arthur! and why shouldn't I see his sister? +My father and mother ain't tyrants! They know what that would make of +me! They let me go where I please, or give a good reason why I should +not.” + +“Oh, they'll do that fast enough!” returned Alice, in a tone of mingled +despair and scorn. “But,” she added immediately, “the worst of it is, +they'll be in the right. Let me out, Richard, or I shall hate you!” + +But with the word she dropped her head on his shoulder, and sobbed as if +her heart would sob its last. + +He made repeated attempts to soothe her, but, as he made them, he felt +them foolish, for he saw that nothing would alter her determination to +be set down. + +“Must I leave you, then, on this very spot?” he said. + +“Yes, yes! here--here!” she answered, and rose with apparent eagerness +to get away from him. + +He got out, and turned to her, but she did not accept his offered help. + +“Won't you shake hands with me?” he said. “I did not mean to offend +you!” + +She answered nothing, but hurried away a step or two, then turned and +lifted her arms as if to embrace him, but turned again instantly, and +fled away among the shadows of the wildly flickering lamps. By the time +he had paid the cabman, he saw it would be useless to follow, for she +was out of sight. + +The wide street was almost deserted; its lamps shuddered flaring and +streaming and darkening in the fierce gusts of the wind. A vague army of +evil things seemed to start up and come crowding between him and Alice. +He turned homeward, with a sense of loss and a great sadness at his +heart, unable even to speculate as to the cause of Alice's behaviour. +All he knew was, that his mother had something to do with it. For the +first time since childhood, he felt angry with his mother. + +“She fancies,” he said to himself, “that I am in love with the girl, +and she thinks her not good enough for me! I'm not in love with her; +but _any_ good girl I cared for, I should count good enough! When my +mother's turn comes, off she goes to the rest of the social tyrants that +look down on a brother because he can do twenty things they can't! +If the world went out of gear, would _they_ make it go! I'll be fair +whatever I be! It'll be my mother's own fault if I fall in love with +Alice! She has made me pity her with all my heart--the poor, white +thing!--so thin and pinched, and such big eyes! It would be just bliss +to have a creature like that to trust you, so that you could comfort +her! What can my mother have said to her? She has made her awfully +miserable, anyhow! Perhaps her mother drinks!--What if she do! Alice +don't!” + +He was determined to have some explanation from his mother. But she +foiled him. The moment she saw what he meant, she turned away, listened +in silence, and spoke with a decision that savoured of anger. + +“They're not people your father and I will have you know,” she said, +without looking at him. + +“But why, mother?” asked Richard. + +“We're not bound to explain everything to you, Richard. It ought to be +enough that we _have_ a good reason.” + +“If it be a good reason, why shouldn't I know it, mother?” he persisted. +“Good things don't require to be hidden.” + +“That's very true; they do not.” + +“Then why hide this one?” + +“Because it is not good.” + +“You said it was a good reason!” + +“So it is.” + +“Good and not good! How can that be?” said Richard, with a great lack of +logic. By this time he ought to have been able to see that the worst of +facts may be the best of reasons. + +His mother held her peace, knowing she was right, but not knowing how to +answer what she thought his cleverness. + +“I mean to go and see them, mother,” he said. + +“You'll repent it, Richard. The woman is not respectable!” + +“She won't bite me!” + +“There's worse than biting!” + +“I allow,” pursued Richard, “she may take a drop too much; her nose does +look a little suspicious! But if she ain't what she should be, it's hard +lines Arthur and Alice should suffer for the sins of their mother.” + +“The Bible says the sins of the fathers are visited on the children.” + +“The Bible! If the Bible says what ain't right, are we to do it?” + +“Richard, I'll have no such word spoken again in my house!” exclaimed +his mother. + +“Are you going to turn me out, mother, because I say we should not do +what is wrong, whoever tells us to?” + +“No, Richard! You said the Bible said what was wrong; and that's +blasphemy!” + +“Didn't you say, mother, that the Bible said we ought to visit the sins +of the fathers on the children?” + +“God forbid!” cried the poor woman, driven almost to distraction; “I +said nothing of the kind! That would be awful! What the Bible says is, +that God does so.” + +“Well, if God chooses, we must leave him to do as he chooses--not do +likewise!” + +“Surely, surely, Richard! If _he_ does it, he knows what he's about, and +we don't.” + +“All right, mother! Then tell me where Arthur and Alice are gone. I want +to go and see them.” + +“I don't know. In fact, I took care not to know, that I mightn't be able +to tell you.” + +“But why?” + +“Never mind why. I don't know where they are, and couldn't tell you if I +would.” + +Richard turned angrily away, and went to his room, weary and annoyed. In +the morning his mother said to him-- + +“Richard, I can't bear there should be any misunderstanding between you +and me! The moment you are one and twenty, ask me and I will tell you +why I would not have you knowing those people. Believe me, I was right +to stop it, for fear of what might follow.” + +“If you are afraid of my falling in love with a girl you don't think +good enough for me, you have taken the wrong way to keep me from +thinking about her, mother. You remember the costermonger whose family +quarrelled with him for marrying beneath him? If a girl be a good girl, +she is good for me, whether she be the daughter of the cats'-meat-man +or of a royal duke! I know that's not the way people who call themselves +Christians think! They want, of course, to keep up the selfishness of +the breed!” + +It was horribly rude, and Jane burst into tears. Richard's heart +softened. It is well our hearts are sometimes in advance of our +consciences--we are so slow to recognize injustice in defence of the +right! Richard's wrong to his mother was a lack of faith in her. Where +he did not understand and she would not explain, he did not even give +her the benefit of the doubt. He treated her just as many of us, calling +ourselves Christians, treat the Father--not in words, perhaps, or even +in definite thoughts, but in feelings and actions. + +“You will be sorry for this one day, Richard!” she sobbed. “Whatever I +do is from care over you!” + +“To wrong another for my sake, never can be any good to me. If money +wrong-got be a curse, so is any good wrong-got.” + +“You won't trust me, Richard! My own father is a blacksmith: why should +I look down upon a dressmaker?” + +“That's just what I think, mother!--Why?” + +“I don't!” returned Mrs. Tuke--and there she paused: another step might +bring her to the edge of the gulf! + +Richard looked at her moodily for a moment, then turned away to the +workshop; where, after his ill success with his mother, he was hardly +less disinclined to challenge his father than before, for he knew him +inexpugnable. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. _MORTGRANGE._ + +In the spring came a letter from young Lestrange, through Simon Armour, +asking Richard upon what terms he would undertake the work wanted in the +library. + +He handed the letter to his father, and they held a consultation. + +“There's this to be considered,” said the bookbinder, “that, if you go +there, you lose your connection here--in a measure, at least. Therefore +you cannot do the work at the same rate as in your own shop.” + +“On the other hand, I should have my keep.” + +“That is true, and of course is something; but I think it may fairly +be held to do no more than make up for the advantages of living in +London--your classes, for instance.” + +“Anyhow I must be paid so much a month, and do what I can in the time. I +couldn't charge by the individual job in a man's own house!--The thing +I am afraid of is, that, not knowing the niceties of the work, they may +fancy I don't do enough.” + +“In the other way they would fancy you charged too much, and that would +come to the same thing!--But they will at least discover that you keep +to your hours and stick to your work!--We must calculate by what the +best hands in the trade get a week!” + +The terms they concluded to ask appeared to Lestrange reasonable. He +proposed then that Richard should bind himself for not less than a year, +while Lestrange reserved the right of giving him a month's notice; and +these points being willingly assented to by Richard, an agreement was +drawn up and signed--much to the satisfaction of Simon Armour, whose +first thought was that the work would not be too hard for Richard to +want a little exercise at the forge after hours. Richard, however, well +as he liked the anvil, was not so sure about this: there might be books +to read after he had done his day's duty by their garments! He had half +laid out for himself a plan of study in his leisure time, he said. + +It was a lovely evening when he arrived at Mortgrange from his +grandfather's. He was shown to his new quarters in the old mansion by +the housekeeper, an elderly, worthy creature, with the air of a hostess. +She liked the young man; the honest friendliness of his carriage pleased +her. He was handsome too, though not strikingly so, and his expression +was better than any handsomeness, inspiring the honest with confidence, +and giving little hope to the designing. His brave outlook, not bold +so much as fearless, and his ready smile, seemed those of a man more +prepared than eager to do his part in the world. He was well set up, +and of good figure, for the slight roundness of his shoulders had almost +disappeared. The poise of his head, and the proportions of his limbs, +left nothing to be desired. His foster-parents had encouraged him in +every manly exercise, for they were wise enough to have regard to the +impression he must make at first sight: they would have it easy to +believe that he might be what they were about to swear he was. Nor had +his sojourn with his grandfather been the least factor in the result +that he sat down to his work as lightly as a gentleman to his dinner, +turned from it as if he had been playing a game instead of earning his +bread, and altogether gave the impression of being a painter or sculptor +rather than a tradesman. There was that in his bearing which suggested a +will rather than necessity to labour. + +“Here is your room, young man,” said Mrs. Locke. + +It was a large, rather neglected chamber, at the end of a long passage +on the second floor--the very room out of which one midnight he had been +borne in terror, twenty years before, by the woman he called his mother. + +“And I hope you will find yourself comfortable,” continued the old lady, +in a tone that implied--“You ought to be!”--“If you want anything, or +have anything to complain of, let me know,” she added. “--I thought it +better not to put you in the servant's quarters!” + +“Thank you, ma'am,” said Richard. “This is a beautiful room for me! Do +you know, ma'am, where I'm to work?” + +“I have not been informed,” she answered, as she left the room. “Mr. +Lestrange will see to that.” + +Richard went to the window. Before him spread an extensive but somewhat +bare park, for the trees in it were rather few. Some of them, however, +were grand ones: many had been cut down, but a few of the finest left. +A sea of grass lay in every direction, with islands of clumps and +thickets, and vague shores of hedge and wood and ploughed field. On the +grass were cattle and sheep and fallow deer. On this side, nothing came +between the park and the house. + +The day was late in the spring; summer was close at hand. There had been +rain all the morning and afternoon, but the clouds were clearing away as +now the sun went down. Everything was wet, but the undried tears of +the day flashed in the sunset. Nature looked a child whose gladness had +come, but who could not stop crying: so heartily had she gone in for +sorrow, that her mind was shaped to weeping. Most of the clouds, late +so dark and sullen, were putting on garments of light, as if resolved to +forgive and forget, and leave no doubt of it. But the sun did not look +satisfied with his day's work. Slant across the world to Richard's +window came the last of his vanishing rays, blinding him as he brooded, +and obliterating all between them in a throbbing splendour; yet somehow +the sun seemed sad, as if atonement had come too late. The edge extreme +of the glory vanished; a moment's cloud followed; and then, when the +radiance of him who was gone grew rosy and golden above his grave, +Richard began to see much that his presence had been hiding. But the +revelation did not linger long. The clouds closed on the twilight, the +world grew almost dismal, and the sadness crept into Richard; or was it +not rather that his own hidden sadness rose up to meet the sadness +of the world? Yet, even as he became aware of it, something in him +recognised it as a thing foreign to the human heart: “We were not made +for this!” he said. “--We are not here, I mean,” he corrected himself, +“--we have not sprung into being in order to be sad! There is no reason +in sadness! There is cause enough, man at least knows, but essential +reason at the heart of its existence there is none!--Whence, then, comes +this mistake, this sadness?” he went on with himself. “Why should there +be so much of it in the world? Is it that, as for all other good things, +a man must put forth his will for joy? It is plain a man must assert +what is highest in him, else he cannot lay hold of the best: must a man +will to be glad, else deserve to be sorrowful?” He began to whistle. +“I will be glad!” he said, “even in the midst of a world of rain!--Yet +again, why should the mere look of a rainy night make it needful for me +to assert joy and resist sadness?--After all, what is there to be merry +about, in this best of possible worlds? I like going to the theatre; but +if I don't like the play, am I to be pleased all the same, sit it out +with smiles, and applaud at the end?--I don't see what there is to make +me miserable, and I don't see what there is to make me glad!” + +Would it have cast any light either on Richard's gloom or his +perplexity, had he been told that, in the place where he stood staring +out on the gray, formless twilight, his mother had often sought refuge, +and tasted the comfort of an assuagement of splendour. She had not +appropriated the room, and it was some time before the household knew +that she was in the way of going there: it was awkwardly situated in a +remote part of the house and rarely used--which made its attraction for +lady Lestrange. But the faithful sister did not forget where she had +once found her on her knees weeping, and chose it for herself and her +charge when she was gone. + +In a few minutes Richard arrived at the conclusion that he would be all +right as soon as he got among the wine-bins of the library. He did not +reflect how little of a man is he whose sense of well-being is at the +mercy of a Scotch mist or a cloudy twilight. Neither did he put to +himself the question whether the mending of the old leather bottles +in which lie stored the varied wines of the human spirit, ought to +be labour and gladness enough for the soul of a man. It is a poor +substitute for food that helps us to forget the want of it. But how can +we wonder when he would have no father, and claimed the black Negation, +the grandmother of Chaos, as his mother! Yet was it the presence all the +time of that father he refused that made it possible for him to drink +the water of any poorest little well of salvation that sprang in the +field of his life; and such a well was his work among books. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. _THE BEECH-TREE_. + +He went to bed, and after a dreamless night, rose to find the world +overflowed with bliss. The sun was at his best, and every water-drop on +the grass was shining all the colours of the rainbow. Surely the gems +that are dug from the earth have their prototype in the dew-drops that +lie on its surface. One might in a moment of sweet maundering imagine +Nature hiding those sunless dew-drops of the mines in the darkness of a +sweet sorrow that the youth of the morning must be so evanescent. + +The whole world lay before Richard his inheritance. The sunlight gave it +him, a gift from the height of his heaven. What was it to Richard that +the park, its trees, its grass, its dew-drops, its cattle, its shadows, +belonged to sir Wilton! He never even thought of the fact! He felt them +his own! Was the soft, clear, fresh, damp air, with all the unreachable +soul of it, not his, because it was sir Wilton's? + +The highest property, as Dante tells us, increases to each by the +sharing of it with others. But the common mind does not care for such +property. Was not the blue, uplifted, hoping sky, that spoke to the sky +inside Richard--was not that sir Wilton's? Yes, indeed; for were it not +sir Wilton's, it could not be Richard's. But sir Wilton did not claim +it, because he did not care for it, heard no sound of the speech it +uttered. Happy would it have been for sir Wilton, that anything he +called his, was his as it was Richard's! He could not prevent Richard +from possessing Mortgrange in a way he himself did not and would not +possess it. But neither yet were they Richard's in the full eternal way. +Nature was a noble lady whose long visit made him glad; she was not yet +at her own home in his house. There were things in the world that might +come in and drive her out. Say rather, there was yet no chamber in that +house in which she could take up her dwelling all night. + +The setting sun had made Richard sad; his resurrection made him blessed! +He dressed in haste, and went to find his way from the house. + +Arrived in the park, and walking in cool delight on the wet grass, he +began to think about the men and the races whom the greed of other men +and races had pinched and shouldered and squeezed from the world. He +thought of the men who, by preventing others and refusing to let them +share, imagine to increase the length and breadth and depth of their own +possessing; and thus by degrees he fell into a retributive mood. What +should, what could, what would be done with such men? + +“As they refuse their neighbours ground to stand upon,” he said to +himself, “as the very cubic space they cannot disrobe them of they +begrudge them because it measures from what they count their land, I +should like to know how high their possession goes! Is there any law +that lays that down? To what point above him can the landowner complain +of trespass in the gliding or hovering balloon? When hawking comes in +again, as it will one day, by the law of revival, at what height will +another man's falcon be an intruder on him who stands gazing up from +his corn? Were I a power in the universe, I would cram the air over +the heads of such incarnate greeds with clouds of souls! The sun should +reach them only through the vapours of other life than theirs, inimical +to them because of their selfishness. I would set the dead burrowing +beneath them, so that the land they boast should heave under their feet +with the writhing of the bodies they drove from the surface into the +deeps. They should have but a carpet, wallowing in the waves of a +continuous live earthquake. I know I am thinking like a fool; but surely +at least there ought to be some set season for Truth and Justice to +return to the forsaken earth! Are we for ever to bear without hope the +presence of the cruel, the vulgar self-souled, the neighbour-crushing +rich? Are the wicked the favourites of Nature, that they flourish like +a green bay-tree? Doubtless it is right to forgive--but how to be able? +Nobody has ever done me any harm yet; I have nothing to complain of; +it cannot be revenge in me that longs for something, call it God, or +Nature, or Justice, that will repay!--God it cannot be; but something +sure there must be to which vengeance belongs!” + +He might have gone further in his thinking, and perhaps come to ask what +satisfaction there could be in any vengeance, so long as the evil-doer +remained unhumbled by the perception and the shame of his doing, was +neither sorry for it nor turned away from it--in a word, did not repent; +but there came an interruption. + +He was walking slowly along, unheeding where he went, when he heard +a sound that made him look up. Then he saw that he was under a great +beech, and the sound seemed to come from somewhere in the top of +it--a sound like the pleased cooing of a dove. He looked hard into the +branches and their wilderness of fresh leaves, but could descry nothing. +Then came a little laugh, and with a preparatory rustling and rustling +in its passage, a book--a small folio--fell plump at his feet. + +“Will you please put it in the library!” said a voice he had heard +before--long before, it seemed--but had not forgotten. + +“I will bring it to you--at least I would, if I could see where you +are!” answered Richard, gazing with yet keener search into the thick +mass of leaf-cloud over his head. + +“No, no; I don't want more of it. I can't see you, and don't know who +you are; but please take the book, and lay it on the middle table in the +library. It may be hurt, and I don't want to come down just yet.” + +“Very well, miss!” answered Richard; “I will.--The fall from such a +height, and through all those branches, must have done it quite enough +harm already!” + +“Oh!--I never thought of that!” said the voice. + +Richard took up the book, and walked away with it, pondering. + +“Is it possible,” he said to himself, “that the little lady, whose +big mare I shod last year, is up there in that tree? It must be her +voice!--I cannot, surely, be mistaken!--But how on earth, or rather how +in heaven, did she get up? Yet why shouldn't she climb as well as any +other? It must be as easy as riding that huge mare. And then she's not +like other ladies! She's not of the ordinary breed of this planet! Which +of them would have spoken to a blacksmith-lad as she spoke to me! Who +but herself would have tied up a scratch in a working man's hand!” + +He was right so far: she could climb as no other in that county, no +other, perhaps, in England, man or boy or girl, could climb. She was +like a squirrel at climbing; and for the last few mornings, the weather +having grown decidedly summery, had gone before breakfast to say her +prayers in that tree. + +Richard carried the book to the house--it was Pope's Letters--found his +way to the library, and laid it where she said, hoping she would come +to seek it, and that he might then be present. Would she recognize the +fellow that shod her mare? he wondered. + +He could do nothing till he knew where he was to work, and therefore, +after breakfast in the servants' hall, he asked one of the men to let +him know when Mr. Lestrange would see him, and went to his room. + +Richard had not yet become aware of any moral pressure. The duty of +aspiration or self-conquest, had never in any shape been forced upon +him, and his conscience had not made him acquainted with it. What is +called a good conscience is often but a dull one that gives no trouble +when it ought to bark loudest; but Richard's was not of that sort, and +yet was very much at ease. I may say for him that he had done nothing he +knew to be bad at the moment; and very little that he had to be ashamed +of afterwards, either at school or since he left it. Partly through the +care of his parents, he had never got into what is called bad company, +had formed no undesirable intimacies. He had a natural cleanliness, a +natural sense of the becoming, which did much to keep him from evil: he +could not consent to regard himself with disgust, and he would have been +easily disgusted with himself. If he did not, as I have indicated, +set himself with any conscious effort to rise above himself, he did do +something against sinking below himself. The books he chose were almost +all of the better sort. He had instinctively laid aside some in which he +recognized a degrading influence. + +But here let me remark that it depends partly on the degree of a man's +moral development, whether this or that book will be to him degrading +or otherwise. A book which one man ought to scorn, may be of elevating +tendency to another, because it is a little above his present moral +condition. A book which to enjoy would harm a more delicate mind, may +_perhaps_ benefit the nature that would have chosen a coarser book +still. We cannot determine the operation of energies, when we do not +know on what moral level they are at work. The dead may be left to bury +their dead; it would be sad to see an angel haunting a charnel-house. + +I have been led into this digression through the desire to give +an approximate idea of the good, rather vacant, unselfish, and yet +self-contented, if not self-satisfied condition of Richard's being. + +He got out a manuscript-book in which he was in the habit of setting +down whatever came to him, and wrote for some time, happily making more +than one spot of ink on the toilet-cover, which served to open the eyes +of Mrs. Locke to her mistake in thinking a workman would not want a +writing-table; so that before the next evening he found in his chamber +everything comfortable for writing, as well as for sleeping and +dressing. + +He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the message that +Mr. Lestrange was in the morning-room, and wished to see him. + +He followed the man and found Lestrange at the breakfast-table, with +a tall young woman, very ordinary-looking, except for her large, soft, +dark eyes, and the little lady whose mare he had shod, and whose voice +he had that morning heard from the tree-top. + +He advanced half-way to the table, and stood. + +“Ah, there you are!” said Lestrange, glancing up, and immediately +reverting to his plate. “We've got to set to work, haven't we?” + +He had, I presume, found the ladies not uninterested in the restoration +that was about to be initiated, and had therefore sent for Richard while +breakfast was going on. + +The fledgling baronet, except for his too favourable opinion of himself, +in which he was unlike only a very few, and an amount of assumption not +small toward his supposed inferiors, was not a disagreeable human, and +now spoke pleasantly. + +“Yes, sir,” answered Richard. “Shall I wait outside until you have done +breakfast?” + +He feared the servant might have made a mistake. + +“I sent for you,” replied Lestrange curtly. + +“Very well, sir. I have not yet learned whether the tools I sent on +have been delivered, but there will be plenty to do in the way of +preparation.--May I ask if you have settled where I am to work, sir?” + +“Ah! I had not thought of that!” + +“It seems to me, sir, that the library itself would suit best; that is, +if I might have a good-sized kitchen-table in it, and roll up half the +carpet. When I had to beat a book I could take it into the passage, or +just outside the window. Nothing else would make any dust.” + +Lestrange had been thinking how to have the binder under his eye, and +yet not seem to watch a fellow so much above his notion of a working +man; the family made very little use of the library, and Richard's +proposal seemed just the thing. He would be sure to stick to his work +where some one might any moment be coming in! + +“I don't see any difficulty,” he answered. + +“I should want a little fire for my glue-pot and polishing-iron. There +will be gilding and lettering too, though I hope not much--title-pieces +to replace, and a touch here and there to give to the tooling! No man +with any reverence in him would meddle much with such delicate, lovely +old things as many of these gildings! He would not dare more than just +touch them!” + +The little lady sat eating her toast, but losing no word that was said. +She knew from his voice the young man was the same to whom she had +called out of the beech-tree; but now she seemed to recognize him as the +blacksmith whose hand she had bound up: what could a blacksmith do in a +library? She was puzzled. + +Richard noted that she was dressed in some green stuff, which perhaps +was the cause of his having been unable to discover her in the tree! Her +great eyes--they were bigger than those of the tall lady--every now and +then looked up at him with a renewed question, to which they seemed to +find no answer. They were big blue eyes--very dark for blue, and rather +too round for perfection; but their roundness was at one with the +prevailing expression of her face, which was innocent daring, inquiry, +and confidence. The paleness of it was a healthy paleness, with just +an inclination to freckle. Her dark, half-scorched-looking hair was so +abundant and rebellious, that it had to be all over compelled with gold +pins. Its manipulation had neither beginning, middle, nor end. She ate +daintily enough, but as if she meant to have a breakfast that should +last her till luncheon--when plainly the active little furnace of her +life would want fresh fuel. But it was of another kind of fuel she was +thinking now. In the man who stood there, so independent, yet so free +from self-assertion, she saw a prospect of learning something. She was +hungry after knowing, but, though fond of reading, was very ignorant of +books. She thought like a poet, but had never read a real poem. She was +full of imagination, but very imperfectly knew what the word meant. +She had never in her life read a work of genuine imagination--not even +_Undine_, not even _The Ugly Duckling_. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. _THE LIBRARY_. + +After some talk, it was settled that Richard should work in the large +oriel of the library. Mrs. Locke was called, and the necessary orders +were given. Employer and workman were both anxious, the one to see, the +other to make a commencement. In a few minutes Richard had looked out as +many of the books in most need of attention as would keep him, turning +from the one to the other, as each required time in the press or to dry, +thoroughly employed. + +“There is a volume here I should like to know your mind about, sir,” + he said, after looking at one of them a moment or two, “--the first +collected edition of Spenser's works, actually bound up with Sir John +Harrington's translation of Ariosto! If it were a good, or even an old +binding, I should have said nothing.” + +“It don't seem in a bad way.” + +“No, but the one book is so unworthy of the other!” + +“What would you propose?” + +“I would separate them; put the Spenser in plain calf, and make the +present cover, with a new back, do for Sir John; it is a good enough +coat for him.” + +“Very well. Do as you think best.” + +“I should like to send them both to my father.” + +“But you have undertaken everything!” + +“I am quite ready, sir; but in that case these must wait. My faculty is +best laid out on mending, and I must do some good work in that first. +I don't know that I'm quite up to my father in binding. I mentioned him +because if he were to help me with those that must be bound, I should +have the more time for what often takes longer. You may trust my father, +sir; he does not want to make a fortune.” + +“I will try him then,” answered the cautious heir. “At least I will send +him the books, and learn what he would charge.” + +He had more of the ordinary tradesman in him than Richard and his uncle +put together. + +“I will put the prices on them, and engage that my father will charge no +more,” said Richard. + +Lestrange was content on hearing them, and Richard set to work with the +other volumes. + +The bookbinder, always busy, soon began to be respected in the house, +and before long had gained several indulgences--among the rest, to have +a table for himself in the library, at which, when work-hours were over, +he might read or write when he pleased. As his labours went on, the +_bookscape_ began to revive, and continued slowly putting on an +autumnal radiance of light and colour. Dingy and broken backs gradually +disappeared. Pamphlets and magazines, such as, from knowledge or +inquiry, Richard thought worth the expense, were sent off to his father +to be bound. But I must continue my narrative from a point long before +his work began to make much of a show. + +A few valuable books, much injured by time and rough usage,--among +the rest a quarto of _The Merry Wives_--he had pulled apart, and was +treating with certain solutions, in preparation for binding them, when +Lestrange came in one morning, accompanied by the curate of the parish. +His eyes fell on a loose title-page which he happened to know. + +“What on earth are you doing?” he cried. “You will destroy that book! By +Jove!--You little know what you're about!” + +“I do know what I am about, sir. I shall do the book nothing but good,” + answered Richard. “It could not have lasted many years without what I am +doing.” + +“Leave it alone,” said Lestrange. “I must ask some one. The treatment is +too dangerous.” + +“Excuse me, sir; the treatment is by no means dangerous. After this +bath, I shall take it through one of thin size, to help the paper to +hold together. The book has suffered much, both from damp and insects.” + +“No matter!” answered Lestrange imperiously. “I will not have you meddle +further with that volume.--Would you believe it, Hardy,” he went +on, turning to the curate, “it is that translation of Ovid he is +experimenting upon!” + +“I beg your pardon, I am not experimenting,” said Richard. + +“I hardly think it is such a very rare book!” replied the curate. “I +believe it _could_ be replaced!” + +“Ah, you don't know, I see! I thought I had shown you!” returned +Lestrange excitedly. “Look there!” + +He pointed to the title-page, which was lying on the table. + +“I see!” said Hardy. “It is a first edition--in black letter--of Arthur +Golding's Ovid!” + +“But you don't look! Why don't you look? Have you no eyes for that faded +ink just under the title?” + +“Why! What's this? _Gul. Shaksper!_--Is it possible!” + +“You find it hard to believe your eyes, and well you may!--There, Tuke! +I told you you didn't know what you were doing!” + +“I always examine the title-page of a book,” answered Richard. “You must +allow me to do as I see fit, Mr. Lestrange, or I give up the job.” + +“You undertook to work for a year, if required!” + +“I did not undertake to receive orders as to my mode of working. I care +for books far too much for that. Besides, I have my character to see to! +I warn you that if I do not go on with that volume, it will be ruined.” + +“You don't consider the money you risk!--That name makes the book worth +hundreds at least.” + +“It is the greatest of names! Only that name was not written by him who +owned it!” + +“What do you know about it!” said Lestrange rudely. + +“Are you an expert?” asked the curate. + +“By no means,” answered Richard; “but I have been a good deal with +old books, and my impression is you have got there one of the Ireland +forgeries!” + +“I believe it to be quite genuine!” said Lestrange. + +“If it be, there is the more reason in what I am doing, sir.” + +Lestrange turned abruptly to the curate, saying--“Come along, Hardy! I +can't bear to see the butchery!” + +“Depend on it,” returned the curate laughing, “the surgeon knows his +knife!--You _know_ what you're about, don't you, Mr. Tuke?” + +“If I did not, sir, I wouldn't meddle with a book like that, forgery or +no forgery! You should see the quantities of old print I've destroyed +in learning how to save such books!--This is no vile body to experiment +upon!” + +“Mr. Lestrange, you may trust that man!” said the curate. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. _BARBARA WYLDER._ + +It was the height of the season, and sir Wilton and lady Ann were in +London--I cannot say _enjoying themselves_, for I doubt if either of +them ever enjoyed self, or anything else. Their daughters were at home, +in the care of the governess. Theodora had been out a year or two, but +preferred Mortgrange to London. She was one of the few girls--perhaps +not very few--who imagine themselves uglier than they are. Miss +Malliver, the governess, was a lady of uncertain age, for whom lady +Ann had an uncertain liking. The younger girl, her pupil, was named +Victoria, but commonly called Vic, and not uncommonly Vixen. The younger +boy was at school, where they were constantly threatening to send him +home. He had been already dismissed from Eton. + +In their elder son, Arthur, his parents had as perfect a confidence as +such parents could have in any son. + +The little lady that rode the great mare, and sat in the beech-tree, +was at present their guest--as she often was, in a fluctuating or +intermittent fashion. She lived in the neighbourhood, but was more +at Mortgrange than at home; one consequence of which was, that, as +would-be-clever Miss Malliver phrased it, the house was very much B. +Wyldered. Nor was that the first house the little lady had bewildered, +for she was indeed an importation from a new colony rather startling +to sedate old England. Her father, a younger son, had unexpectedly +succeeded to the family-property, a few miles from Mortgrange. He was +supposed to have made a fortune in New Zealand, where Barbara was born +and brought up. They had been home nearly two years, and she was almost +eighteen. Absurd rumours were abroad concerning their wealth, but there +were no great signs of wealth about the place. Wylder Hall was kept up, +and its life went on in good style, it is true, but mainly because the +old servants perpetuated the customs of the house. + +The squire was said to have shared in some of the roughest phases of +colonial life. Whether he was better or worse for falling in love with +the money of an older colonist, and marrying his daughter, it is certain +that, for a time at least, he grew a shade or two more respectable. +Far from being a woman of refinement, she had more character and more +strength than he, and brought him, not indeed into the highways of +wisdom, but into certain by-paths of prudence. + +Upon his return to his native country, they were everywhere received; +but had it not been for their reported wealth, I doubt if the ladies of +the county, after some experience of her manners and speech, which were +at times very rough, would have continued to call on Mrs. Wylder. + +But everybody liked Barbara; and nobody could think how such a flower +should have come of two such plants. She seemed to regard every one as +of her own family. People were her property--hers to love! And her brain +was as active as her heart, and constantly with it. She wanted to know +what people thought and felt and imagined; what everything was; how a +thing was done, and how it ought to be done. She seemed to understand +what the animals were thinking, and what the flowers were feeling. She +had from infancy spent the greater part of her life, both night and day, +in the open air; and, having no companion, had sought the acquaintance +of every live thing she saw--often to the disgust of her mother, and +occasionally to the annoyance of her father. She was a child of the +whole world, as the naiad is the child of the river, and the oread +of the mountain. She could sit a horse's bare back even better than a +saddle, could guide him almost as well with a halter as with a bridle, +and in general control him without either, though she had ridden more +than one horse with terrible bit and spurs. She did not remember the +time when she could not swim, and she tried her own running against +every new horse, to find what he could do. Some highland girl might +perhaps have beaten her, up hill, but I doubt it. She was so small that +she looked fragile, but she had nerves such as few men can boast, +and muscles like steel. It never occurred to her not to say what she +thought, believed, or felt; she would show favour or dislike with equal +readiness; and give the reason for anything she did as willingly as do +the thing. She was a special favourite at Mortgrange. Not only did she +bewitch the _blasé_ man of the world, sir Wilton, but the cold eye of +his lady would gleam a faint gleam at the thought of her dowry. Her +father “prospected” a little for something higher than a mere baronetcy, +but he had in no way interfered. Of herself, divine little savage, she +would never have thought of love until she fell in love: a flower cannot +know its own blossom until it comes. It did not yet interest her, +and until it did, certainly marriage never would. Thus was she +healthier-minded than any one born of society-parents, and brought up +under the influences of nurse-morality, can well be. When she came to +England, it was hard to teach her the ways of the so-called civilized. +Servants would sometimes be out searching for her after midnight, +perhaps to find her strayed beyond the park, out upon the solitary +heath. She knew most of the stars, not by their astronomical names +indeed, but by names she had herself given them. She had tales of her +own, fashioned in part from the wild myths of the aborigines, to account +for the special relations of such as made a group. She would weave the +travels of the planets into the steady history of the motionless stars. +Waning and waxing moons had a special and strange influence upon her. +She would dart out of doors the moment she saw the new moon, and give +a wild cry of joy if the old moon was in her arms. Any moon in a gusty +night, with a scud of torn clouds, would wake in her an ecstasy. Her old +nurse, who had come with her--a strange creature, of what mingled blood +no one knew--told of her that she was sometimes seized with such a +longing for the ocean, that she would lie for hours ere she went to +sleep, moaning with the very moan of its pebble-margined waves. When “in +the bush,” she would upon occasion wander about from morning to night. +No trouble able to keep her still had ever yet laid hold of her. But +she had grown neither coarse nor unfeeling through lack of human +intercourse. Nature was to her what she was to Wordsworth's Lucy, and +made her a lady of her own. + +As to what is commonly called education, she had not had the best. Since +coming to England, she had had governesses, but none fit for the office. +Not merely had no one of them that rare gift, the teaching genius--the +faculty of waking hunger and thirst; that would have mattered little, +for Barbara needed no such rousing; she was eager to know, and yet more +eager to understand; but not one of those teachers knew enough to answer +a quarter of Barbara's questions, or was even capable of perceiving that +those she could not answer, pointed to anything worth knowing. + +Among fashionable girls, affecting a free and easy, or even rough style, +Barbara was notable for a sweet, unconscious, graceful daring, never for +even a playful rudeness. Nothing she ever did or said or attempted could +be called rough, while yet she would say things to make a vulgar duchess +stare. Had she been affected, she would have drawn fools and repelled +men; real, she charmed alike men and fools. + +She had read few books worth reading--had read a few which one would +not have chosen she should read, for she grasped at anything a passer-by +might have left. Of books properly so called, she knew nothing, +therefore had not a notion which to read now she might choose. She +imagined them all attractive--but at the first assay turned from +the burlesque with a kind of loathing. This made some of her new +acquaintance, not refined enough to understand the peculiarity, as it +seemed to them, set her down as stupid. + +As to religion, she had never been taught any. But from before her +earliest recollection she had had the feeling of a Presence. For this +feeling she never thought of attempting to account, neither would have +recognized it as what I have called it. The sky over her head brought +it; a sweep of the earth away from her feet would bring it; any horizon +far or near called it up, perhaps most keenly of all. In England she +often sorely missed her horizon, and in cities was even unhappy for lack +of one. If she could have crystallized, and then formulated her feeling, +she would have said she felt lonely, that something or somebody had +gone away. Had she been a pagan, it would have been her gods that had +forsaken her. Without a horizon she felt as if the wind had forgotten +her, the sky did not know her. Often indeed even the farthest horizon +could not prevent her from feeling that she had come to a dead country; +that things here did not mean anything; that the life was out of them. +Was the world so crowded with men and their works as to shut out from +her the Presence? When she went to church, nothing received her, nothing +came near her, nothing brought her any message. Something was done, she +supposed, that ought to be done--something she had no inclination to +dispute, no interest in questioning; a certain good power called God, +required from people, in return for the gift of existence, the attention +of going to church; therefore she went sometimes. She had no idea of +ever having done wrong, no feeling that God was pleased or displeased +with her, or had any occasion to be either. She did not know that it was +God that came near her in her horse, in her dog, in the people about +her who so often disappointed her. He came nearer in a thunderstorm, +a moonlit night, a sweet wind--anything that woke the sense of the old +freedom of her childhood. She felt the presence then, but never knew it +a presence. + +Neither did she know that there was a place where the very essence, of +that whose loss made her sad was always waiting her--a place called in +a certain old book “thy closet.” She did not know that there opened the +one horizon--infinitely far, yet near as her own heart. But He is there +for them that seek him, not for those who do not look for him. Till they +do, all he can do is to make them feel the want of him. Barbara had not +begun to seek him. She did not know there was anybody to seek: she +only missed him without knowing what she missed. The blind, almost +meaningless reverence for the name of God, which somehow she learned at +church, had not led her in any way to associate him with her sense of +loss and need. + +Her father's desire was to see her so married as to raise his influence +in the county. He was proud of her--selfishly proud. Was she not his? +Was he not “the author of her being”? If he did not quite imagine he had +created her, he certainly never thought of any one but himself as having +to do with her existence. All the credit in it was his! He forgot even +what share her mother might claim; not to mention what in her might +belong to the Sum of Things, the insensate Pan. A self-glorious man is +the biggest fool in the world. + +Her mother, too, was proud of her--loved her indeed after a careless +fashion--was even in a sort obliged to her for having come to her. But +she did not care for her enough to interfere with her. Notwithstanding +the mother's coarseness, her outbursts of temper, her intolerance of +opposition, she and her daughter had never yet come into collision. The +reason did not entirely lie in the sweetness of the daughter, but partly +in the fact that the mother had two children besides, one of whom she +loved far more, and the other far less. + +Barbara had no pride. She spoke in the same tone to lord and tradesman. +She had been the champion of the blacks in her own country, and in +England looked lovingly on the gypsies in their little tents on the +windy downs. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. _BARBARA AND RICHARD_. + +Hardly had Lestrange left the room, when Barbara entered, noiseless as +a moth, which creature she somehow resembled at times: one observant +friend came to see that she resembled all swift, gay, and gentle +creatures in turn. She was in the same green dress which had favoured +her concealment in the beech, and in which Richard had seen her +afterward at the breakfast-table, but of which he had not since caught +a glimmer. Her blue eyes--at times they seemed black, but they were +blue--settled upon Richard the moment she entered, and resting on him +seemed to lead her up to the table where he was at work. + +“What have you done to make Arthur so angry?” she said, her manner as if +they had known each other all their lives. + +“What I am doing now, miss--making this book last a hundred years +longer.” + +“Why should you, if he doesn't want you to do it? The book is his!” + +“He will be pleased enough by and by. It's only that he thinks I can't, +and is afraid I shall ruin it.” + +“Hadn't you better leave it then?” + +“That would be to ruin it. I have gone too far for that.” + +“Why should you want to make it last so long? They are always printing +books over again, and a new book is much nicer than an old one.” + +“So some people think; but others would much rather read a book in its +first shape. And then books get so changed by printers and editors, that +it is absolutely necessary to have copies of them as they were at first. +You see this little book, miss? It don't look much, does it?” + +“It looks miserable--and so dirty!” + +“By the time I have done with it, it will be worth fifty, perhaps a +hundred pounds--I don't know exactly. It is a play of Shakespeare's us +published in his lifetime.” + +“But they print better and more correctly now, don't they?” + +“Yes; but us I said, they often change things.” + +“How is that?” + +“Sometimes they will change a word, thinking it ought to be another; +sometimes they will alter a passage because they do not understand it, +putting it all wrong, and throwing aside a great meaning for a small +one: the change of a letter may alter the whole idea. But they often +do it just by blundering. Shall I tell you an instance that came to +my knowledge yesterday? It is but a trifle, yet is worth telling.--Of +course you know the _Idylls of the King_?” + +“No, I don't Why do you say 'of course'?” + +“Because I thought every English lady read Tennyson.” + +“Ah, but I was born in New Zealand!--Tell me the blunder, though.” + +“There was one thing in _The Pausing of Arthur_--that's the name of one +of the Idylls--which I never could understand:--how sir Bedivere could +throw a sword with both hands, and make it go in the way Tennyson says +it went.” + +“But who was sir Bedivere?” + +“You must read the poem to know that, Miss. He was one of the knights of +king Arthur's Round Table.” + +“I don't know anything about king Arthur.” + +“I will repeat us much of the poem as is necessary to make you +understand about the misprint.” + +“_Do--please_.” + + “Then quickly rose sir Bedivere, and ran, + And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged + Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, + And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand + Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, + And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, + Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, + Seen where the moving isles of winter shock + By night, with noises of the northern sea. + So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur.” + +“What does _the brand Excalibur_--is that it?--what does it mean? They +put a brand on the cattle in the bush.” + +“_Brand_ means a sword, and _Excalibur_ was the name of this sword. They +seem to have baptized their swords in those days!” + +“There's nothing about _both hands_!” + +“True; that comes a little lower down, where sir Bedivere tells king +Arthur what he has done. He says-- + +“'Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him'. + +“--Now do you think anybody could do that, and make it go flashing round +and round in an arch?” + +Barbara thought for a moment, then said-- + +“No, certainly not. To make it go like that, you would have to take it +in one hand, and swing it round your head--and then you couldn't without +a string tied to it. Or perhaps it was a sabre, and he was so strong he +could send it like a boomerang!” + +“No; it was a straight, big, heavy sword.--How then do you think +Tennyson came to describe the thing so?” + +“Because he didn't know better--or didn't think enough about it.” + +“There is more than that in it, I fancy: he was misled by a printer's +blunder, I suspect. Some months ago I found the passage which Tennyson +seems to follow, in a cheap reprint of sir Thomas Malory's History of +King Arthur--then just out, and could not make sense of it. Yesterday I +found here this long little book, evidently the edition from which the +other was printed--and printed correctly too. In both issues, this is +what the knight is made to say: + +“'Then sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it +up and went to the water's side, and there he bound the girdle about the +belts. And then he threw the sword into the water as far as he might.'” + +“Well,” said Barbara, “you have not made me any wiser! You said the new +one was printed correctly from that old one!” + +“But I did not say the old one, as you call it, was itself printed +correctly from the much older one! Look here now,” continued +Richard--and mounting the library-steps, he took down another small +volume, very like the former, “--here is another edition, of nearly the +same date: let me read what is printed there:-- + +“'Then sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it +up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the +hilt. And then he threw the sword into the water as far as he might.' + +“Now, most likely the copy from which both of these editions were +printed, had the word _hilts_, for then they always spoke of the +_hilts_, not _hilt_ of a sword; and the one printer modernized it into +_hilt_, and the other, perhaps mistaking the dim print, for _hilts_ +printed _belts_. To tie the girdle about the _belts_ must simply be +nonsense. But to tie the girdle to the hilts of the sword, would just +give the knight what you said he would want--something long to swing it +round his head with, and throw it like a stone, and the sling with it.” + +“I understand.” + +“You see then how the printer's blunder, which might not appear to +matter much, has come to matter a great deal, for it has, it seems to +me, caused a fault-spot in the loveliest poem!” + +During this conversation Richard's work had scarcely relaxed; but now +that a pause came it seemed to gather diligence. + +“Why do you spend your time patching up books?” said Barbara. + +“Because they are worth patching up; and because I earn my bread by +patching them.” + +“But you seem to care most for what is inside them!” + +“If I did not, I should never have taken to mending, I should have +been content with binding them. New covers make more show, and are much +easier put on than patches.” + +Another pause followed. + +“What a lot you know!” said Barbara. + +“Very little,” answered Richard. + +“Then where am I!” she returned. + +“Perhaps ladies don't need books! I don't know about ladies.” + +“I think they don't care about them. I never hear them talk as you +do--as if books were their friends. But why should they? Books are only +books!” + +“You would not say that if once you knew them!” + +“I wish you would make me know them, then!” + +“There are books, and you can read, miss!” + +“Ah, but I can't read as you read! I understand that much! I was born +where there ain't any books. I can shoot and fish and run and ride and +swim, and all that kind of thing. I never had to fight. I think I could +shoe a horse, if any one would give me a lesson or two.” + +“I will, with pleasure, miss.” + +“Oh, thank you. That will be jolly! But how is it you can do +everything?” + +“I can only do one or two things. I can shoe a horse, but I never had +the chance of riding one.” + +“Teach me to shoe Miss Brown, and I will teach you to ride her. How is +your hand?” + +“Quite well, thank you.” + +“I would rather learn to read, though--the right way, I mean--the way +that makes one book talk to another.” + +“That would be better than shoeing Miss Brown; but I will teach you +both, if you care to learn.” + +“Thank you indeed! When shall we begin?” + +“When you please.” + +“Now?” + +“I cannot before six o'clock. I must do first what I am paid to +do!--What kind of reading do you like best?” + +“I don't know any best. I used to read the papers to papa, but now I +don't even do that. I hope I never may.” + +“Where do you live, miss, when you're at home?” asked Richard, all the +time busy with the quarto. + +“Don't you know?” + +“I don't even know who you are, miss!” + +“I am Barbara Wylder. I live at Wylder Hall, a few miles from here.--I +don't know the distance exactly, because I always go across country: +that way reminds me a little of home. My father was the third son, and +never expected to have the Hall. He went out to New Zealand, and married +my mother, and made a fortune--at least people say so: he never tells me +anything. They don't care much for me: I'm not a boy!” + +“Have you any brothers?” + +“I have one,” she answered sadly. “I had two, but my mother's favourite +is gone, and my father's is left, and mamma can't get over it. They were +twins, but they did not love each other. How could they? My father and +mother don't love each other, so each loved one of the twins and hated +the other.” + +She mentioned the dismal fact with a strange nonchalance--as if the +thing could no more be helped, and needed no more be wondered at, than a +rainy day. Yet the sigh she gave indicated trouble because of it. + +Richard held his peace, rather astonished, both that a lady should talk +to him in such an easy way, and that she should tell him the saddest +family secrets. But she seemed quite unaware of doing anything strange, +and after a brief pause resumed. + +“Yes, they had long been tired of each other,” she said, us if she had +been reflecting anew on the matter, “but the quarrelling came all of +taking sides about the twins! At least I do not remember any of it +before that. They were both fine children, and they could not agree +which was the finer, but, as the boys grew, quarrelled more and more +about them. They would be at it whole evenings, each asserting the +merits of one of the twins, and neither listening to a word about the +other. Each was determined not to be convinced, and each called the +other obstinate.” + +“Were the twins older or younger than you, miss?” asked Richard. + +“They were three years younger than me. But when I look back it seems +as if I had been born into the bickering. It always looked as natural +as the grassy slopes outside the door. I thought it was a consequence +of twins, that all parents with twins went on so. When my father's next +older brother fell ill, and there seemed a possibility of his succeeding +to the property, the thing grew worse; now it was which of them should +be heir to it. Waking in the middle of the night, I would hear them +going on at it. Then which was the elder, no one could tell. My mother +had again and again, before they began to quarrel, confessed she did not +know. I don't think I ever saw either of my parents do a kindness to the +other, or to the child favoured by the other. So from the first the boys +understood that they were enemies, and acted accordingly. Each always +wanted everything for himself. They scowled at each other long before +they could talk. Their games, always games of rivalry and strife, would +for a minute or two make them a little less hostile, but the moment the +game ceased, they began to scowl again. They were both kind to me, and +I loved them both, and naturally tried to make them love each other; +but it was of no use. It seemed their calling to rival and obstruct one +another. When they came to blows, as they frequently did, my father and +mother would almost come to blows too, each at once taking the usual +side. I would run away then, put a piece of bread in my pocket, and get +on a horse. Nobody ever missed me.” + +“Did you never lose your way?” asked Richard: he must say something, he +felt so embarrassed. + +“My horse always knew the way home. I have often been out all night, +though; and how peaceful it was to be alone with Widow Wind, as I used +to call the night I--I don't know why now; I suppose I once knew.” + +Something in this way she ran on with her story, but I fail to approach +the charm of her telling. Her narrative was almost childish in its +utterance, but childlike in its insight. What could have moved her so to +confide in a stranger and a workman? In truth, she needed little moving; +her nature was to trust everybody; but there were not many to whom she +could talk. Miss Brown helped her with no response; to her parents she +had no impulse to speak; the young people she met stared at the least +allusion to the wild ways of her past life, making her feel she was not +one of them. Even Arthur Lestrange had more than once looked awkward at +a remark she happened to make! So, instead of confiding in any of them, +that is, letting her heart go in search of theirs, she had taken to +amusing them, and in this succeeded so thoroughly as to be an immense +favourite--which, however, did not make her happy, did not light up the +world within her. Hence it was no great wonder that, being such as she +was, she should feel drawn to Richard. He was the first man she had even +begun to respect. In her humility she found him every way her superior. +It was wonderful to her that he should know so much about books, the way +people made them, what they meant, and how mistakes got into them, and +went from one generation to another: they were his very friends! She +thought it was his love for books that had made him a bookbinder, as +indeed it was his love for them that had made him a book-mender. Her +heart and mind were free from many social prejudices. She knew that +people looked down upon men who did things with their hands; but she had +done so many things herself with her hands, and been so much obliged to +others who could do things with their hands better than she, that +she felt the superiority of such whose hands were their own perfect +servants, and ready to help others as well. + +One of the things by which she wounded the sense of propriety in +those about her was, that she would talk of some things that, in their +judgment, ought to be kept secret. Now Barbara could understand keeping +a great joy secret, but a misery was not a nice thing to cuddle up and +hide; of a misery she must get rid, and if talking about it was any +relief, why not talk? She soon found, however, that it was no relief to +talk to Arthur or his sister; and from the commonplace governess, she +recoiled. The bookbinder was different; he was a man; he was not what +people called a gentleman; he was a man like the men in the Bible, who +spoke out what they meant! The others were empty; Richard was full of +man! As regarded her father and mother, she could betray no secret of +theirs; everybody about them knew the things she talked of; and had they +been secrets, neither would have cared a pin what a working man might +know or think of them! Did they not quarrel in the presence of the very +cat! Then Richard was such a gentlemanly workman! Of course he could not +be a gentleman in England, but there must be, certainly there ought +to be somewhere the place in which Richard, just as he was, would be a +gentleman! She was sure he would not laugh at her behind her back, and +she was not sure that Arthur, or Theodora even, would not. More than +all, he was ready to open for her the door into the rich chamber of his +own knowledge! Must a man be a workman to know about books? What then if +a workman was a better and greater kind of man than a gentleman? In her +own country, it did not matter so much about books, for there one had +so many friends! Why read about the beauties of Nature, where she was at +home with her always! What did any one want with poetry who could be +out as long as she pleased with the old night, and the stars gray with +glory, and the wind wandering everywhere and knowing all things! Here +it was different! Here she could not do without books! Where the things +themselves were not, she wanted help to think about them! And that help +was in books, and Richard could teach her how to get at it! + +It was indeed amazing that one who had read so little should have so +good, although so imperfect a notion of what books could do. Just so +much a few cheap novels had sufficed to reveal to her! But then Barbara +was herself a world of uncrystallized poetry. What is feeling but poetry +in a gaseous condition? What is fine thought but poetry in a fluid +condition? What is thought solidified, but fine prose; thought +crystallized, but verse? + +“Here,” she would say, but later than the period of which I am now +writing, “where the weather is often so stupid that it won't do +anything, won't be weather at all; will neither blow, nor rain, nor +freeze, nor shine, you need books to make a world inside you--to take +you away, as by the spell of a magician or on the wings of an eagle, +from the walls and the nothingness, into a world where one either finds +everything or wants nothing.” She had yet to learn that books themselves +are but weak ministers, that the spirit dwelling in them must lead back +to him who gave it or die; that they are but windows, which, if they +look not out on the eternal spaces, will themselves be blotted out by +the darkness. + +To end her story, she told Richard that, since their coming to this +country, her mother's favourite had died. She nearly went mad, she said, +and had never been like herself again. For not only had her opposition +to her husband deepened into hate, but--here, to Richard's amusement +when he found on what the reverential change was attendant, Barbara +lowered her voice--she really and actually hated God also. “Isn't it +awful?” Barbara said; but meeting no response in the honest eyes of +Richard, she dropped hers, and went on. + +“I have heard her say the wildest and wickedest things, careless whether +any one was near. I think she must at times be out of her mind! One day +not long ago I saw her shake her fist as high as she could reach +above her head, looking up with an expression of rage and reproach and +defiance that was terrible. Had we been in New Zealand, I should not +have wondered so much: there are devils going about there. Nobody knows +of any here, but it was here they got into my mother, and made her defy +God. She does it straight out in church. That is why I always sit in +the poor seats, and not in the little gallery that belongs to my +father.--Have you ever been to our church, Mr. Tuke?” + +Richard told her he never went to church except when his mother wanted +him to go with her. + +“My mother goes twice every Sunday; but what do you think she is doing +all the time? The gallery has curtains about it, but she never allows +those in front to be drawn, and anybody in the opposite gallery can see +into it quite well, and the clergyman when he is in the pulpit: she lies +there on a couch, in a nest of pillows, reading a novel, a yellow +French one generally, just as if she were in her own room! She knows the +clergyman sees her, and that is why she does it.” + +“She disapproves of the whole thing!” said Richard. + +“She used to like church well enough.” + +“She must mean to protest, else why should she go? Has she any quarrel +with the clergyman?” + +“None that I know of.” + +“What then do you think she means by going and not joining in? Why is +she present and not taking part?” + +“I believe she does it just to let God know she is not pleased with him. +She thinks he has treated her cruelly and tyrannically, and she will not +pretend to worship him. She wants to show him how bitterly she feels the +way he has turned against her. She used to say prayers to him; she will +do so no more! and she goes to church that he may see she won't.” + +The absurdity of the thing struck Richard sharply, but he feared to hurt +the girl and lose her confidence. + +“Her behaviour is only a kind of insolent prayer!” he said. “--Has the +clergyman ever spoken to her about it?” + +“I don't think he has. He spoke to me, but when I said he ought to speak +to her, he did not seem to see it. _I_ should speak to her fast enough +if it were _my_ church!” + +“I dare say he thinks her mind is affected, and fears to make her +worse,” said Richard. “But he might, I think, persuade her that, as she +is not on good terms with the person who lives in the church, she ought +to stay away.” + +Barbara looked at him with doubtful inquiry, but Richard went on. + +“What sort of a man is the clergyman?” he asked. + +“I don't know. He seems always thinking about things, and never finding +out. I suppose he is stupid!” + +“That does not necessarily follow,” said Richard with a smile, +reflecting how hard it would be for the man to answer one of a thousand +questions he might put to him in connection with his trade. “Your poor +mother must be very unhappy!” he added. + +“She may well be! I am no comfort to her. She never heeds me; or she +tells me to go and amuse myself--she is busy. My father has his twin, +and poor mamma has nobody!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. _BARBARA AND OTHERS._ + +At this point, Barbara's friend came into the room, and they went away +together. + +Theodora, so named by her mother because she was born on a Sunday, was a +very different girl from Barbara. Nominally friends, neither understood +the other. Theodora was the best of the family, but that did not suffice +to make her interesting. She was short, stout, rather clumsy, with an +honest, thick-featured face, and entirely without guile. Even when she +saw it, she could not believe it there. She had not much sympathy, but +was very kind. She never hesitated to do what she was sure was right; +but then, except for rules, many of them far from right themselves, she +would have been almost always in doubt. Anything in the shape of a rule, +she received as an angel from heaven. If all the rules she obeyed had +been right, and she had seen the right in them, she would have been +making rapid progress; as it was, her progress was very slow. How +Barbara and she managed to entertain each other, I find it hard to +think; but all forms of innocent humanity must have much in common. A +contrast, nevertheless, the two must have presented to any power able to +read them. Barbara was like a heath of thyme and wild roses and sudden +winds; Theodora like a Dutch garden without its flowers. They never +quarrelled. I suspect they did not come near enough to quarrel. + +Barbara left Richard almost bewitched, and considerably perplexed. He +had never seen anything like her. No more had most people that met her. +She seemed of another nature from his, a sort of sylph or salamander, +yet, in simplest human fashion, she had come quite close to him. She had +indeed brought to bear upon him, without knowing it, that humbling and +elevating power which ideal womankind has always had, and will eternally +have upon genuine manhood. There was an airiness about her, yet a +reality, a lightness, yet a force, a readiness, a life, such as he could +never have imagined. She was a revelation unrevealed--a presence lovely +but incredible, suggesting facts and relations which the commonplace in +him said could not exist. The vision was, to use a favourite but pagan +phrase, “too good to be true.” Richard's knowledge of girls was small +indeed, but he had now enough to make his first comparison: Alice was +like China, Barbara like Venetian glass. He thought there was something +in Alice if he could only get at it: he feared there was nothing in +Barbara to get at. For one thing, how could she have such parents and +take it so lightly! + +There were certainly few things yet in flower in Barbara's garden, but +there was a multitude of precious things on the way to unfold themselves +to any one that might love her enough to give them a true welcome. She +was nearly as far out of Richard's understanding as beyond that of the +good Theodora. The consequence was that he felt himself full beside her +emptiness. He was no coxcomb, neither dreamed of presenting himself for +her admiration; but he pictured the delight of opening the eyes of this +child-woman to the many doors of treasure-houses that stood in her own +wall. + +Only those who haunt the slopes of literature, know that marvels lie +in the grass for the hand that will gather them. Multitudes who count +themselves readers know no more of the books they read than the crowds +that visit the Academy exhibitions know of the pictures they gaze upon. +Yet are the realms of literature free as air, freer even than those of +music. The man whose literary judgment and sympathy I prized beyond that +of the world beside, was a clerk in the Bank of England. The man who +by the spell of his words can set me in the heart of soft-stealing +twilight--nay, rather, can set the very heart of the dying day in +me--was a Lancashire weaver. And dainty, bird-moth-like Barbara had +begun to suspect the existence of something hers yet beyond her in +books, of an unknown world which lay at her very door. In that same +world the bookbinder passed much of his time, and it was neither in +pride nor in presumption that he desired to share it with Barbara. It is +the home-born impulse of every true heart to give of its best, to infect +with its own joy; and the thought of giving grandly to a woman, to a +lady, might well fill the soul of a working man with a hitherto unnamed +ecstasy. Another might have compared it to the housing of a strayed +angel with frozen feathers, lost on the wintry wilds of this far-out, +border world; but Richard did not believe in those celestial birds; and +had he believed, a woman would yet have been to him, and rightly, more +than any angel. What he did think of was the huntsman and the little +lady in The Flight of the Duchess. + +He began to ponder how to treat her--how to begin to open doors for +her--what door to open first. Should it be of prose or of verse? He +must have more talk with her ere he could tell! He must try her with +something! + +He had time to ponder, for she did not anew swim into his ken for three +days. He wondered whether he had displeased her, but could think of +nothing he had said or done amiss. He must be very careful not to offend +her with the least roughness in word or manner, lest he should so +lose the chance of helping her! It was the main part of his creed, as +gathered from his adoptive father, that a man must do something for his +neighbour: Miss Wylder was his neighbour; what better thing could he do +for her than make her free of the greatest joy he knew? + +Barbara had quite as much liberty as was good. Her mother sat in a +darkened room, and took morphia; her father, to occupy his leisure, had +begun to repair an old house on the estate with his own hands. Nobody +heeded Barbara; she did as she pleased, going and coming as in the +colony. A favourite with all about the place, she had never to use +authority. Every one, for very love, was at her service. Whatever +preposterous thing, at whatever unearthly moment, she might have wanted, +it would have been ready--her mare at midnight, her breakfast at noon, +a cow in the library to draw from. There was little regularity in the +house; every one wanted to do what was right in his own eyes; but every +one was ready to see right with the eyes of Barbara. + +Home was, nevertheless, as one may well believe, a terribly dull place +to her; and as, for some occult reason, Theodora Lestrange had taken +a fancy to her, as sir Wilton was charmed with her, and lady Ann--for +reasons--had little to say against her, she was at Mortgrange as much +as she pleased--never too much even for Arthur, whose propriety, rather +insular, a little provincial, and sometimes pedantic, she would shock +twenty times a day; for he was fascinated by her grace and playfulness, +though he declared he would as soon think of marrying a humming-bird as +Barbara. He tried for a while to throw his net over her, for he would +fain have tamed her to come at his call: but he soon arrived at the +conclusion that nothing but the troubles of life would tame her, and +then it would be a pity. She was a fine creature, he said, but hardly +human; and for his part he preferred a woman to a fay! + +But such was the report of her riches, that sir Wilton and lady Ann were +both ready to welcome her as a daughter-in-law. Sir Wilton was delighted +with her gaiety and the sharp readiness of her clever retort. All he +regretted in her lack of an English education was that her speech was +not quite that of a lady--on which point sir Wilton had not always been +so fastidious. For the rest, intellectual development was of so little +interest to him that he never suspected Barbara of having more than +a usual share of intellect to develop. She was just the wife for the +future baronet, he was once heard to say--though how he came once to say +it I cannot think, for never before had he betrayed a consciousness that +he would not be the present baronet for ever and ever. So long as he did +not feel the approach of death, he would never think of dying, and then +he would do his best to forget it. He seemed sometimes to grudge his son +the dainty little wife Barbara would make him: “The rascal will be the +envy of the clubs!” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. _MRS. WYLDER_. + +Mr. Wylder was lord of the manor, and chief land-owner, though his +family had never been the most influential, in the parish next that in +which lay Mortgrange. He was not much fitted for an English squire. He +wished to stand well with his neighbours, but lacked the geniality +which is the very body, the outside expression of humanity. Proud of his +family, he had the peculiar fault of the Goth--that of arrogance, with +its accompanying incapacity for putting oneself in the place of another. +Mr. Wylder possessed a huge inability of conceiving the manner in which +what he did or said must affect the person to whom he did or said it. +So entirely was he thus disqualified for social interchange, that +he remained supremely satisfied in his consequent isolation, hardly +recognized it, and never doubted himself a perfect gentleman. Had any +diffidence enabled him to perceive the reflection of himself in the +mirroring minds of those around him, his self-opinion might have been +troubled; but when he did begin to discover that the neighbours did +not desire his company, he set it down to stupid prejudice against him +because he had been so long absent from the country. He did not hunt, +and when he went out shooting, which was seldom, he went alone, or with +a game-keeper only. In fact he was so careless, that most men who had +once shot with him, ever after gave him a wide berth when they saw him +with a gun in his hand. On one occasion he shot his wife's twin in +the calf of the leg; which, however, made her think no worse of +his shooting, for she could never be persuaded he had not done it +intentionally. + +For a short time before leaving Australasia, the family had spent money +in one of its larger cities, and had been a good deal followed; +but neither there nor in England did they find that wealth could do +everything. A few other qualities, not by any means of the highest +order, are required by nearly all social agglomerations, and with +some of these Mrs. Wylder was as scantily equipped as her husband with +others. + +Resenting the indifference of his neighbours, and not caring to remove +it, Mr. Wylder betook himself to the exercise of certain constructive +faculties, not unfrequently developed in circumstances in which a man +has to be his own Jack-of-all-trades: finding a certain old manor-house +which he had haunted as a boy, chiefly for the sake of its attendant +goose-berries and apples, unoccupied and fallen into decay, he set about +restoring it with his own hands. But it had not occurred to him that, +although even in England it is not necessary, as they did at Lagado, in +building to begin with the roof, in England especially is it necessary +in repairing to begin with the roof. While the floors were rotting +away, he would be busy panelling the walls, regardless of a drop falling +steadily in the middle of the bench at which he was working. + +The clergyman of the parish, one Thomas Wingfold, a man who loved his +fellow, and would fain give him of the best he had, a man who was a +Christian first, which means a man, and then a churchman, had now, for +almost three years, often puzzled brain and heart together to find what +could be done for these his new parishioners--from the world's point of +view the first, yet in reality as insignificant as any he had; and not +yet did he know how to get near them. He had not yet seen a glimmer of +religion in the man, and had seen more than a glimmer of something else +in the woman. Between him and either of them their common humanity had +not yet shown a spark. What he had seen of the girl he liked, but he had +not seen much. + +It was a fine frosty day in February, about twelve o'clock, when Mr. +Wingfold walked up the avenue of Scotch firs to call on Mrs. Wylder. He +was dressed like any country gentleman in a tweed suit, carried a rather +strong stick, and wore a soft felt hat, looking altogether more of a +squire than a clergyman--for which his parishioners mostly liked him the +better. Pious people in general seem to regard religion as a necessary +accompaniment of life; to Wingfold it was life itself; with him religion +must be all, or could be nothing. He did not accept the good news of +God; he strained it to his heart, and was jubilant over it. He was a +rather square-looking man, with projecting brows, and a grizzled beard. +The upper part of his face would look dark while a smile was hovering +about his mouth; at another time his mouth would look solemn, almost +severe, while a radiance, as from some white cloud nobody could see, +illuminated his forehead. He generally walked with his eyes on the +ground, but would every now and then straighten his back, and gaze away +to the horizon, as if looking for the far-off sails of help. He was +noted among his farmers for his common sense, as they called it, and +among the gentry for a certain frankness of speech, which most of them +liked. + +He rang the door-bell of the Hall, and asked if Mrs. Wylder was at home. +The man hesitated, looked in the clergyman's face, and smiling oddly, +answered, “Yes, sir.” + +“Only you don't think she will care to see me!” + +“Well, you know, sir,--” + +“I do. Go up, and announce me.” + +The man led the way, and Mr. Wingfold followed. He opened the door of +a room on the first floor, and announced him. Mr. Wingfold entered +immediately, that there might be no time for words with the man and a +message of refusal. + +Discouragement encountered him on the threshold. The lady sat by a +blazing fire, with her back to a window through which the frosty sun +of February was sending lovely prophecies of the summer. She was in a +gorgeous dressing-gown, her plentiful black hair twisted carelessly, but +with a show of defiance, round her head. She was almost a young woman +still, with a hardness of expression that belonged neither to youth nor +age. She sat sideways to the door, so that without turning her head +she must have seen the parson enter, but she did not move a visible +hair's-breadth. Her feet, in silk stockings and shabby slippers, +continued perched on the fender. She made no sign of greeting when the +parson came in front of her, but a scowl dark as night settled on her +low forehead and black eyebrows, and her face shortened and spread out. +Wingfold approached her with the air of a man who knew himself unwelcome +but did not much mind--for he had not to care about himself. + +“Good morning, Mrs. Wylder!” he said. “What a lovely morning it is!” + +“Is it? I know nothing about it. You have a brutal climate!” + +He knew she regarded him as the objectionable agent of a more +objectionable Heaven. + +“You would not dislike it so much if you met it out of doors. A walk on +a day like this, now,--” + +“Pray who authorized you to come and offer me advice I Have I concealed +from you, Mr. Wingfold, that your presence gives me no pleasure?” + +“You certainly have not! You have been quite honest with me. I did not +come in the hope of pleasing you--though I wish I could.” + +“Then perhaps you will explain why you are here!” + +“There are visits that must be made, even with the certainty of giving +annoyance!” answered Wingfold, rather cheerfully. + +“That means you consider yourself justified in forcing your way into my +room, before I am dressed, with the simple intention of making yourself +disagreeable!” + +“If I were here on my own business, you might well blame me! But what +would you say to one of your men who told you he dared not go your +message for fear of the lightning?” + +“I would tell him he was a coward, and to go about his business.” + +“That, then, is what I don't want to be told!” + +“And for fear of being told it, you dare me!” + +“Well--you may put it so;--yes.” + +“I don't like you the worse for your courage. There's more than one man +would face half a dozen bush-rangers rather than a woman I know!” + +“I believe it. But it makes no extravagant demand on my courage. I am +not afraid of _you_. I owe you nothing--except any service worth doing +for you!” + +“Let that blind down: the sun's putting the fire out.” + +“It's a pity to put the sun out in such a brutal climate. He does the +fire no harm.” + +“Don't tell _me_!” + +“Science says he does not.” + +“He puts the fire out, I tell you!” + +“I do not think so.” + +“I've seen it with my own eyes. God knows which is the greater +humbug--Science or Religion!--Are you going to pull that blind down?” + Wingfold lowered the blind. + +“Now look here!” said Mrs. Wylder. “You're not afraid of me, and I'm not +afraid of you!--It's a low trade, is yours.” + +“What is my trade?” + +“What is your trade?--Why, to talk goody! and read goody! and pray +goody! and be goody, goody!--Ugh!” + +“I'm not doing much of that sort at this moment, any way!” rejoined +Wingfold with a laugh. + +“You know this is not the place for it!” + +“Would you mind telling me which is the place to read a French novel +in?” + +“Church: there!” + +“What would you do if I were to insist on reading a chapter of the Bible +here?” + +“Look!” she answered, and rising, snatched a saloon-pistol from the +chimney-piece, and took deliberate aim at him. + +Wingfold looked straight down the throat of the thick barrel, and did +not budge. + +“--I would shoot you with that,” she went on, holding the weapon as I +have said. “It would kill you, for I can shoot, and should hit you in +the eye, not on the head. I shouldn't mind being hanged for it. Nothing +matters now!” + +She flung the heavy weapon from her, gave a great cry, not like an +hysterical woman, but an enraged animal, stuffed her handkerchief into +her mouth, pulled it out again, and began tearing at it with her teeth. +The pistol fell in the middle of the room. Wingfold went and picked it +up. + +“I should deserve it if I did,” he said quietly, as he laid the pistol +on the table. “--But you don't fight fair, Mrs. Wylder; for you know +I can't take a pistol with me into the pulpit and shoot you. It is +cowardly of you to take advantage of that.” + +“Well! I like the assurance of you! Do I read so as to annoy any one?” + +“Yes, you do. You daren't read aloud, because you would be put out of +the church if you did; but you annoy as many of the congregation as can +see you, and you annoy me. Why should you behave in that house as if it +were your own, and yet shoot me if I behaved so in yours? Is it fair? Is +it polite? Is it acting like a lady?” + +“It _is_ my house--at least it is my pew, and I will do in it what I +please.--Look here, Mr. Wingfold: I don't want to lose my temper with +you, but I tell you that pew is mine, as much as the chair you're not +ashamed to sit upon at this moment! And let me tell you, after the way +_I_'ve been treated, my behaviour don't splash much. When he's brought a +woman to my pass, I don't see God Almighty can complain of her manners!” + +“Well, thinking of him as you do, I don't wonder you are rude!” + +“What! You won't curry favour with him?--You hold by fair play? Come +now! I call that downright pluck!” + +“I fear you mistake me a little.” + +“Of course I do! I might have known that! When you think a parson begins +to speak like a man, you may be sure you mistake him!” + +“You wouldn't behave to a friend of your own according to what another +person thought of him, would you?” + +“No, by Jove, I wouldn't!” + +“Then you won't expect me to do so!” + +“I should think not! Of course you stick by the church!” + +“Never mind the church. She's not my mistress, though I am her servant. +God is my master, and I tell you he is as good and fair as goodness and +fairness can be goodness and fairness!” + +“What! Will you drive me mad! I wish he would serve you as he's done +me--then we should hear another tune--rather! You call it good--you +call it fair, to take from a poor creature he made himself, the one only +thing she cared for?” + +“Which was the cause of a strife that made of a family in which he +wanted to live, a very hell upon earth!” + +“You dare!” she cried, starting to her feet. + +Wingfold did not move. + +“Mrs. Wylder,” he said, “_dare_ is a word that needn't be used again +between you and me. If you dare tell God that he is a devil, I may well +dare tell you that you know nothing about him, and that I do!” + +“Say on your honour, then, if he had treated you as he has done +me--taken from you the light of your eyes, would you count it fair? +Speak like the man you are.” + +_“I know I should.”_ + +“I don't believe you. And I won't worship him.” + +“Why, who wants you to worship him? You must be a very different person +before he will care much for your worship! You _can't_ worship him while +you think him what you do. He is something quite different. You don't +know him to love, and you don't know him to worship.” + +“Why, bless my soul! ain't it your business--ain't you always making +people say their prayers?” + +“It is my business to help my brothers and sisters to know God, and +worship him in spirit and in truth--because he is altogether and +perfectly true and loving and fair. Do you think he would have you +worship a being such as you take him to be. If your son is in good +company in the other world, he must be greatly troubled at the way you +treat God--at your unfairness to him. But your bad example may, for +anything I know, have sent him where he has not yet begun to learn +anything!” + +“God have mercy!--will the man tell me to my face that my boy is in +hell?” + +“What would you have? Would you have him with the being you think so +unjust that you hate him all the week, and openly insult him on Sunday?” + +“You are a bad man, a hard-hearted brute, a devil, to say such things +about my blessed boy! Oh my God! to think that the very day he was taken +ill, I struck him! Why did he let me do it? To think that that very day +he killed him, when he ought to have killed me!--killed him that I might +never be able to tell him I was sorry!” + +“If he had not taken him then, would you ever have been sorry you struck +him!” + +She burst into outcry and weeping, mingled with such imprecation, that +Wingfold thought it one of those cases of possession in which nothing +but prayer is of use. But the soul and the demon were so united, so +entirely of one mind, that there was no room for prayer to get between +them. He sat quiet, lifted up his heart, and waited. By and by there +came a lull, and the redeemable woman appeared, emerging from the smoke +of the fury. + +“Oh my Harry! my Harry!” she cried. “To take him from my very bosom! He +will never love me again! God _shall_ know what I think of it! No mother +could but hate him if he served her so!” + +“Apparently you don't want the boy back in your bosom again!” + +“None of your fooling of me now!” she answered, drawing herself up, +and drying her eyes. “I can stand a good deal, but I won't stand that! +What's gone is gone! He's dead, and the dead lie in no bosom but that of +the grave! They go, and return never more!” + +“But you will die too!” + +“What do you mean by that? You _will_ be talking! As if I didn't know +I'd got to die, one day or another! What's that to me and Harry!” + +“Then you think we're all going to cease and go out, like the clouds +that are carried away and broken up by the wind?” + +“I know nothing about it, and I don't care. Nothing's anything to me but +Harry, and I shall never see my Harry again!--Heaven! Bah! What's heaven +without Harry!” + +“Nothing, of course! But don't you ever think of seeing him again?” + +“What's the use! It's all a mockery! Where's the good of meeting when +we shan't be human beings any more? If we're nothing but ghosts--if he's +never to know me--if I'm never to feel him in my arms--ugh! it's all +humbug! If he ever meant to give me back my Harry, why did he take him +from me? If he didn't mean me to rage at losing him, why did he give him +to me?” + +“He gave you his brother at the same time, and you refused to love him: +what if he took the one away until you should have learned to love the +other?” + +“I can't love him; I won't love him! He has his father to love him! He +don't want my love! I haven't got it to give him! Harry took it with +him! I hate Peter!--What are you doing there--laughing in your sleeve? +Did you never see a woman cry?” + +“I've seen many a woman cry, but never without my heart crying with her. +You come to my church, and behave so badly I can scarce keep from crying +for you. It half choked me last Sunday, to see you lying there with that +horrid book in your hand, and the words of Christ in your ears!” + +“I didn't heed them. It wasn't a horrid book!” + +“It _was_ a horrid book. You left it behind you, and I took it with me. +I laid it on my study-table, and went out again. When I came home to +dinner, my wife brought it to me and said, 'Oh, Tom, how can you read +such books?' 'My dear,' I answered, 'I don't know what is in the book; I +haven't read a word of it.'” + +“And then you told her where you found it?” + +“I did not.” + +“What did you do with it?” + +“I said to her, 'If it's a bad book, here goes!' and threw it in the +fire.” + +“Then I'm not to know the end of the story! But I can send to London for +another copy! I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Wingfold, for destroying my +property!--But you didn't tell her where you found it?” + +“I did not. She never asked me.” + +Mrs. Wylder was silent. She seemed a little ashamed, perhaps a little +softened. Wingfold bade her good-morning. She did not answer him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. _MRS. WYLDER AND BARBARA._ + +To make all this quite credible to a doubting reader, it would be +necessary to tell Mrs. Wylder's history from girlhood. She had had a +very defective education, and what there was of it was all for show. +Then she was married far too young, and to a man unworthy of any good +woman. She indeed was not a good woman, but she was capable of being +made worse; and in the bush, where she passed years not a few, and in +cities afterward, she met women and men more lawless yet than herself or +her husband. Overbearing where her likings were concerned, and full of +a certain generosity where but her interests were in question, the +slackness of the social bonds in the colonies had favoured her abnormal +development. It is difficult to say how much man or woman is the worse +for doing, when freed from restraint, what he or she would have been +glad to do before, but for the restraint. Many who go to the colonies, +and there to the dogs, only show themselves such as they dared not +appear at home: they step on a steeper slope, and arrive, not at the +pit, for they were in that already, but at the bottom of it, so much the +faster. There were, however, in Mrs. Wylder, lovely rudimentary remnants +of a good breed. She inherited feelings which gave her a certain +intermittent and fugitive dignity, of some service to others in her +wilder times, and to herself when she came into contact with an older +civilisation. She would occasionally do a right generous thing--not +seldom give with a freedom and judge with a liberality which were mainly +rooted in carelessness. + +She had much confidence in her daughter; and it said well for the mother +that, with all her experience, she yet had this confidence--and none +the less that she had never taken pains to instruct her in what was +becoming. The most she had done in this way was once to snatch from her +hand and throw in the fire a novel she had herself, a moment before, +finished with unquestioning acceptance. If she had found her behaving +like some of her acquaintance to whose conduct she did not give a second +thought, for her friends might do as they pleased so long as they did +not offend _her_, she would certainly, in some of her moods at least, +have killed her. + +While compelled, from lack of service, to employ herself in house +affairs, she neither ate nor drank more than seemed good for her; but as +soon as she had but to live and be served, she began to counterbalance +_ennui_ with self-indulgence, and continued to do so until the death of +her boy, ever after which she had sought refuge from grief in narcotics. +Possibly she would not have behaved as she did in church, but that her +nervous being was a very sponge for morphia. Born to be a strong woman, +she was a slave to her impulses, and, one of the weakest of her kind, +went into a rage at the least show of opposition. + +Scarcely had Mr. Wingfold left the room, when in came Barbara in her +riding-habit, with the glow of joyous motion upon her face, for she had +just ridden from Mortgrange. + +“How do you do, mamma?” she said, but did not come within a couple of +yards of her. “I've had such a ride--as straight as any crow could fly, +between the two stations! I never could hit the line before. But I got a +country-fellow to point me out a landmark or two, and here I am in just +half the time I should have taken by the road! Such jumps!” + +“You're a madcap!” said her mother. “You'll be brought home on a shutter +some day! Mark my words, Bab! You'll see!--or at least I shall; you'll +be past seeing! But it don't matter; it's what we're made for! Die or be +killed, it's all one! I don't care!” + +“I do though, mamma! I don't want to be killed just yet--and I don't +mean to be! But I must have a second horse! I begin to suspect Miss +Brown of treating me like a child. She takes care of me! I mean to let +her see what _I_ can do if _she's_ up to it!” + +“You'll do nothing of the kind! I'll have her shot if you go after any +of your old pranks! And, while I think of it, Bab--your father has set +his heart on your marrying Mr. Lestrange: I can see it perfectly, and I +won't have it! If I hear of anything of that sort between you, I'll set +a heavy foot on it.--How long have you been there this time?” + +“A week.--But why shouldn't I marry Mr. Lestrange if I like?” + +“Because your father has set his heart on it, I tell you! Isn't that +enough, you tiresome little wretch? I _will not_ have it--not if you +break your heart over it!--There!” + +Barbara burst out in a laugh that rang like a bronze bell. + +“Break my heart for Mr. Lestrange! There's not a man in the world I +would break my little finger for! But my heart! that is too funny! You +needn't be uneasy, mamma; I don't like Arthur Lestrange one bit, and +I wouldn't marry him if you and papa too wanted me. Oh, such a proper +young man! He doesn't think me fit company for his sister!” + +“He said so! and you didn't give him a cut over the eyes with your whip? +My God!” + +“Gracious, no! He never says anything half so amusing! He's scorchingly +polite! I would sooner fall in love with the bookbinder!” + +“The bookbinder? Who's that? You mean the tutor, I suppose! I'm not up +to the slang of this old brute of a country!” + +“No, mamma; there is a man binding--or mending rather, the books in the +library. He's going to teach me to shoe Miss Brown! Papa wouldn't like +me to marry a blacksmith--I mean a bookbinder--would he?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Then you would, mamma?” said Bab demurely, with two catherine-wheels of +fun in her downcast eyes. + +“If you go to do anything mad now, I'll--” + +“Don't strain your innocent invention, mammy! I think I'll take Mr. +Lestrange! Better anger one than both of you!” + +“Tease me any more with your nonsense, and I'll set your father on you! +Be off with you!” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. _BARBARA AND HER CRITICS._ + +While the two talked in the same pulverous fashion, the words came very +differently from the two mouths. In the speech of the mother was more +than a tone of the vulgarity of a conscious right to lay down the +law, of the rudeness born of feeling above obedience and incapable of +error--a rudeness identical with that of the typical vulgar duchess; +the daughter's tone was playful, but dainty in its playfulness, and not +without a certain unconscious dignity; her lawlessness was the freedom +of the bird that cannot trespass, not that of the quadruped forcing its +way. Her almost baby-like cheeks, her musical voice clear of any strain +of sorrow, her quick relations with the whole world of things, her +grace, more child-like than womanly, whether she stood or sat or moved +about, all indicated a simple, fearless, true and trusting nature. +Everybody at Mortgrange liked her; nearly everybody at Mortgrange +had some different fault to find with her; all agreed that she wanted +taming--except sir Wilton, who allowed the wildness, but would not hear +of the taming. The hour of the morning or the night at which she would +not go wandering alone about the park, or even outside it, had not yet +been discovered. + +“Why don't you look better after your friend, Theo?” said her father +one day when Barbara's chair was empty at dinner--with his cold incisive +voice, a little rasping now that the clutch of age's hand was beginning +to close on his throat. + +“She doesn't mind me, papa,” Theodora answered. “Do say something to +her, mamma!” + +“'Tis not my business to reform other people's children,” lady Ann +returned. + +“I find her exceedingly original!” remarked the baronet. + +“In her manners, certainly,” responded his lady. + +“I find them perfect. Their very audacity renders them faultless. And +the charm is that she does not even suspect herself audacious.” + +“That is her charm, I confess,” responded Arthur; “but it is a dangerous +one, and may one day cause her to be sadly misunderstood.” + +“A London drawing-room is your high court of parliament, Arthur!” said +his father. + +“Miss Wylder, with all her sweetness,” remarked Miss Malliver, “has not +an idea of social distinction. She cannot understand why she should not +talk to any farmer's man or dairymaid she happens to meet! It is not her +talking to them I mind so much as the familiar way she does it. If they +take liberties, it will be her own fault. Any groom might be pardoned +for fancying she thought him as good as herself!” + +“But she does,” answered Theodora. “Yesterday, I found her talking to +the bookbinder as familiarly as if he had been Arthur!” + +This was hardly correct, for Barbara talked to the bookbinder with a +deference she never showed Lestrange. + +“She lacks self-respect!” said lady Ann. “But we must deal with her +gently, and try to do her good. I think myself there is not much amiss +with her beyond love of her own way. Her dislike of restraint certainly +does not befit a communicant!” + +Lady Ann was an unfaltering church-goer, rigidly decorous in rendering +what she imagined God, and knew the clergyman expected, and as rank a +mammon-worshipper as any in the land. + +“But I so far agree with sir Wilton,” she went on, “as to grant that +her manners have in them the germ of possible distinction; and I _think_ +they will come to be all, or nearly all, that could be desired. We ought +at least to give her the advantage of any doubt, and do what we can to +lead her in the right direction.” + +“It's a fine thing to go to church and have your wits sharpened!” said +the baronet, with an ungenial laugh. + +Sir Wilton regarded lady Ann as the coldest-blooded and most selfish +woman in creation, and certainly she was not less selfish and was +colder-blooded than he. Full of his own importance as any Pharisee--as +full as he could be without making himself ridiculous, he resented the +slight regard she showed to that importance. He believed himself wise +in human nature, when in truth he was only quick to read in another what +lay within the limited range of his own consciousness. Of the noble in +humanity he knew next to nothing. To him all men were only selfish. The +cause, though by no means the logical ground of this his belief, was his +own ingrained selfishness. With his hazy yet keen cold eye, he was +quick to see in another, and prompt to lay to his charge, the faults he +pardoned in himself. He had some power over himself, for he very seldom +went into a rage; but he kept his temper like a devil, and was coldly +cruel. His wife had tamed him a good deal, without in the least +reforming him. He would have hated her quite, but for the sort of +respect she roused in him by surpassing him in his own kind. He cringed +to her with a sneer. It was long since he had learned from her society +to remember, with the nearest approach to compunction of which his +moth-eaten heart was capable, the woman who had forsaken her own rank to +brave the perils of his, and had sunk frozen to death by the cold of his +contact. For some years he felt far more friendly to the offspring of +the high-born lady than to that of the blacksmith's daughter; but as +time went on, and the memory of the more plebeian infant's ugliness +faded, he began to think how jolly it would be--how it would serve out +her ladyship and her brood of icicles, if after all the blacksmith's +grandson turned up to oust the earl's. He grinned as he lay awake in the +night, picturing to himself how the woman in the next room would take +it. Him and his son together her ladyship might find almost too much for +her! But for many years he had indulged in no allusion to the possible +improbable, allowing her ladyship to refer to Arthur as the heir without +hinting at the uncertainty of his position. + +Lady Ann, from dwelling on what she counted the shame of his origin, +had got so far toward persuading herself that the vanished child was +base-born, that she scarcely doubted the possibility, were he to appear, +of proving his claim false, and originated by conspiracy. Unable +to learn from her husband when and where the baby was baptized, she +concluded that he had never been baptized, and that there was no record +of his birth. As the years went by, and nothing was heard of him, she +grew more and more confident. Now and then a fear would cross her, but +she always succeeded in stifling it--without, however, arriving at such +a degree of certainty, that the thought of the child had no share in +her regard for the wealthy Barbara, her encouragement of her general +relations with the family, and her connivance at her frequent and +prolonged visits during the absence of herself and sir Wilton. + +She was now returned, and had found everything as she left it, with the +insignificant difference that the bay-window of the library was occupied +by a man at work repairing the books. She had resumed the reins of the +family-coach, and now went on to play the part of a good providence, and +drive the said coach to the top of the hill. + +Sir Wilton, I have said, liked Barbara. She amused him, and amusement +was the nearest to sunshine his soul was capable of reaching. All +his weather else was gray, with a touch of the lurid on the western +horizon--of which he was not weather-wise enough to take heed. He had +been at school with Barbara's father, but did not like her any better +for that. In youth they had not been friends, except in a way that +brought their _interests_ too much in collision for their friendship to +last. It had ended in a quiet hate, each knowing too well how much the +other knew to dare an open quarrel. But all that was many years away, +and Tom Wylder had been long abroad and almost forgotten. Sir Wilton, +notwithstanding, admired the forgivingness of his own disposition when +he found himself wondering how Tom Wylder would regard an alliance with +his old rival. Doubtless he would like his daughter to be _my lady_, but +he might be looking for a loftier title than his son could give her! + +Sir Wilton was incapable, however, of taking any active interest in the +matter. The well-being of his family, when he himself should be out of +the way, did not much affect him. Nothing but his lower nature had ever +roused him to action of any kind. How far the idea of betterment had +ever shown itself to him, God only knows. Apparently, he was a child +of the evil one, whom nothing but the furnace could cleanse. Almost the +only thing he could now imagine giving him vivid pleasure, was to see +his wife thoroughly annoyed. + +All he had ever had of the manners of a gentleman, remained with him. He +was courteous to ladies, never swore in their presence--except sometimes +in a mutter at his wife, and could upon occasion show a kindness that +cost him nothing. Humanity was not all dead out of him; neither was +there a purely human thought in him. On Barbara he smiled his sweetest +smile: it owed most of its sweetness to the dentist. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. _THE PARSON'S PARABLE._ + +Mr. Wingfold went as he had come, thoughtful even to trouble. What was +to be done for the woman? What was his part, as parson of the parish, +with regard to her behaviour in church? Was it or was it not his part to +take public notice of what she intended, if not as a defiance to God, at +least as an open expression of her bitter resentment of his dealing with +her? The creator's discipline did not suit his creature's taste, and she +would let him know it: whether it suited her necessities, she did not +ask or care; she knew nothing of her necessities--only of her desires. +Had she had a suspicion that she was an eternal creature, poor as well +as miserable, blind and naked as well as bereaved and angry, she might +have allowed some room for God to show himself right. But she was +ignorant of herself as any savage. Was Wingfold to take her insolence in +church as a thing done to himself, which he must endure with patience? +or, putting himself out of the question, and regarding her conduct only +as a protest against the ways of God with her, must he leave reproof as +well as vengeance to the Lord? Was it his business, or was it not, to +rebuke her, and make his rebuke as open as her offence? It troubled him +almost beyond bearing to think that some of his flock might imagine that +the great lady of the parish was allowed to behave herself unseemly, +where another would be exposed to shame. But how abhorrent to him was a +public contention in the church, and on the Lord's day! Mrs. Wylder +was just the woman to challenge forcible expulsion, and make the +circumstances of it as flagrant as possible! She might even use both +pistol and whip! What better opportunity could she find for giving point +to her appeal against God! A man might, in the rage of disappointment, +cry out that there could be no God where baffle met the holiest +instinct--that blundering chance must rule; he might, illogical with +grief, declare that as God could treat him so, he would believe in him +no longer; or he might assert that an evil being, not a good, was at +the heart of life--a devil and not a God, for he was one who created and +forgot, or who remembered and did not care--who quickened exposure +but gave no shield! called from the void a being filled with doorless +avenues to pain, and abandoned him to incarnate cruelty, that he might +make him sport with the wildness of his dismay! but here was a woman +who did not say that God was not, or that he was not good, but with +passionate self-party-spirit cried out, “He is against me! he sides +with my husband! He is not my friend, but his: I will let him know how +I resent his unfairness!” Whether God was good or bad she did not +care--that was not a point she was concerned in; all she heeded was how +he behaved to her--whether he took part with her husband or herself. +He had torn from her the desire of her heart and left her desolate: she +would worship him no longer! She had been brought up to believe there +was a God, and had never doubted his existence: with her whole will and +passion she opposed that which she called God. She had never learned to +yield when wrong, and now she was sure she was right. Though hopeless +she resisted. She cried out against God, but believed him by his own +act helpless to deliver her, for what could he do against the grave? +Powerless for her as unfriendly toward her, why should she worship him? +Why should she pay court to one who neither would nor could give her +what she wanted? What was he God for? Was _she_ to go to his house, and +carry herself courteously, as if he were her friend! She would not! And +that there might be no mistake as to how she regarded him, she would +sit in her pew and read her novel, while the friends of God said their +prayers to him! If she annoyed them, so much the better, for the surer +she might hope that _he_ was annoyed! + +It may seem to some incredibly terrible that one should believe in God +and defy him! But do none of us, who say also we believe in God, and who +are far from defying him, ever behave like Mrs. Wylder? It is one thing +to believe in a God; it is quite another to believe in God! Every time +we grumble at our fate, every time we are displeased, hurt, resentful +at this or that which comes to us, every time we do not receive the +suffering sent us, “with both hands,” as William Law says, we are of the +same spirit with this half-crazy woman. In some fashion, and that a +real one, she must have believed in the God against whom she urged her +complaint; and it is rather to her praise that, like Job, she did it +openly, and not with mere base grumblings in her heart at her fireside. +It is mean to believe half-way, to believe in words, and in action deny. +One of four gates stands open to us: to deny the existence of God, and +say we can do without him; to acknowledge his existence, but say he is +not good, and act as true men resisting a tyrant; to say, “I would there +were a God,” and be miserable because there is none; or to say there +must be a God, and he must be perfect in goodness or he could not be, +and give ourselves up to him heart and soul and hands and history. + +But what was parson Wingfold to do in the matter? Was he to allow the +simple sheep of his flock to think him afraid of the squire's lady? or +was he to venture an uproar in the church on a Sunday morning? His +wife and he had often talked the thing over, but had arrived at no +conclusion. He went to her now, and told her all that had passed. + +“Isn't it time to do something?” she said. + +“Indeed I think so--but what?” he answered. “I wish you would show me +what I ought to do! Let me see it, and I will do it.” She was silent for +a moment. + +“Couldn't you preach at her?” she said, with a laugh in which was an odd +mingling of doubt and merriment. + +“I have always thought that a mean thing, and have never done it--except +by dwelling on broadest principles. That an evil principle has an +advocate present, is no reason for sparing it: what am I there for? But +to preach that the many may turn on the one--that I never could do!” + +“This case is different from any other. The wrong is done continuously, +in the very eyes of the congregation, and for the sake of its being +seen,” Mrs. Wingfold answered. “Neither would you be the assailant; +you would but accept, not give the challenge. For I don't know how many +Sundays, she has been pitting her position in the pew against yours in +the pulpit! Believing it out of your power to do anything, she flaunts +her French novel in your face; and those that can't see her, see her +yellow novel in your eyes, and think about her and you, instead of the +things you are saying to them! For the sake of the work given you, for +the sake of your influence with the people, you must do something!” + +“It is God she defies, not me.” + +“I think she defies you to say an honest word on his behalf. Your +silence must seem to her an acknowledgment that she is right.” + +“That cannot be, after what I have said to her more than once in her own +house.” + +“Then at least she must think that either you have no authority to drive +from the little temple one of the cows of Bashan, or are afraid of her +horns.” + +“Quite right, Nelly!” cried the rector; “you are quite right. Only you +don't give me a hint what to do!” + +“Am I not saying as plain as I can that you must preach at her?” + +“H'm! I didn't expect that of you!” + +“No; for if you could have expected it of me, you would have thought of +it yourself! But just think! A public scandal requires public treatment. +You will not be dragging her before the people; she has put herself +there! She is brazen, and must be treated as brazen--set in the full +glare of opinion. And I think, if I were a clergyman, I should know how +to do it!” + +Wingfold was silent. She must be right! Something glimmered before +him--something possible--he could not see plainly what. + +“It is all very well to make such a clamour about her boy,” + continued his wife, “but every one knows that she quarrelled with him +dreadfully--that for days at a time they would be cat and dog with each +other. Her animal instinct lasted it out, and she did not come to hate +him; but I can't help thinking it must have been in a great measure +because her husband favoured the other that she took up this one with +such passion. I have been told she would abuse him in language not fit +to repeat, the little wretch answering her back, and choking with rage +that he could not tear her.” + +“Who told you?” asked the parson. + +“I would rather not say.” + +“Are you sure it is not mere gossip?” + +“Quite sure. To be gossip, a thing must go through two mouths at least, +and I had it first-mouth. I tell it you because I think it worth your +knowing.” + +The next Sunday morning, there lay the lady as usual, only her novel was +a red one. When the parson went into the pulpit, he cast one glance on +the gallery to his right, then spoke thus:-- + +“My friends, I will follow the example of our Lord, and speak to you +to-day in a parable. The Lord said there are things better spoken in +parables, because of the eyes that will not see, and the ears that will +not hear. + +“There was once a mother left alone with her little boy--the only +creature in the world or out of it that she cared for. She was a good +mother to him, as good a mother as you can think, never overbearing or +unkind. She never thought of herself, but always of the desire of her +heart, the apple of her eye, her son born of her own body. It was not +because of any return he could make her that she loved him. It was not +to make him feel how good she was, that she did everything for him. +It was not to give him reasons for loving _her_, but because she loved +_him_, and because he needed her. He was a delicate child, requiring +every care she could lavish upon him, and she did lavish it. Oh, how +she loved him! She would sit with the child on her lap from morning till +night, gazing on him; she always went to sleep with him in her bosom--as +close to her as ever he could lie. When she woke in the dark night, her +first movement was to strain him closer, her next to listen if he was +breathing--for he might have died and been lost! When he looked up at +her with eyes of satisfaction, she felt all her care repaid. + +“The years went on, and the child grew, and the mother loved him more +and more. But he did not love her as she loved him. He soon began to +care for the things she gave him, but he did not learn to love the +mother who gave them. Now the whole good of things is to be the +messengers of love--to carry love from the one heart to the other heart; +and when these messengers are fetched instead of sent, grasped at, that +is, by a greedy, ungiving hand, they never reach the heart, but block up +the path of love, and divide heart from heart; so that the greedy heart +forgets the love of the giving heart more and more, and all by the +things it gives. That is the way generosity fares with the ungenerous. +The boy would be very pleasant to his mother so long as he thought to +get something from her; but when he had got what he wanted, he would +forget her until he wanted something more. + +“There came at last a day when she said to him, 'Dear boy, I want you to +go and fetch me some medicine, for I feel very poorly, and am afraid +I am going to be ill!' He mounted his pony, and rode away to get the +medicine. Now his mother had told him to be very careful, because the +medicine was dangerous, and he must not open the bottle that held it. +But when he had it, he said to himself, 'I dare say it is something very +nice, and mother does not want me to have any of it!' So he opened the +bottle and tasted what was in it, and it burned him terribly. Then he +was furious with his mother, and said she had told him not to open the +bottle just to make him do it, and vowed he would not go back to her! +He threw the bottle from him, and turned, and rode another way, until +he found himself alone in a wild forest, where was nothing to eat, +and nothing to shelter him from the cold night, and the wind that blew +through the trees, and made strange noises. He dismounted, afraid to +ride in the dark, and before he knew, his pony was gone. Then he began +to be miserably frightened, and to wish he had not run away. But still +he blamed his mother, who might have known, he said, that he would open +the bottle. + +“The mother got very uneasy about her boy, and went out to look for +him. The neighbours too, though he was not a nice boy, and none but his +mother liked him, went out also, for they would gladly find him and take +him home to her; and they came at last to the wood, with their torches +and lanterns. + +“The boy was lying under a tree, and saw the lights, and heard the +voices, and knew it was his mother come. Then the old wickedness rose up +fresh in his heart, and he said to himself: 'She shall have trouble yet +before she finds me! Am I to come and go as she pleases!' He lay very +still; and when he saw them coming near, crept farther, and again lay +still. Thus he went on doing, and so avoided his saviours. He heard one +say there were wolves in the wood, for that was the sound of them; but +he was just the kind of boy that will not believe, but thinks every +one has a purpose of his own in saying this or that. So he slipped and +slipped away until at length all despaired of finding him, and left the +wood. + +“Suddenly he knew that he was again alone. He gave a great shriek, but +no one heard it. He stood quaking and listening. Presently his pony came +rushing past him, with two or three wolves behind him. He started to +his feet and began to run, wild to get out of the wood. But he could not +find the way, and ran about this way and that until utter despair came +down upon him, and all he could do was to lie still as a mouse lest the +wolves should hear him. + +“And as he lay he began at last to think that he was a wicked child; +that his mother had done everything to make him good, and he would not +be good; and now he was lost, and the wolves alone would find him! +He sank at last into a stupor, and lay motionless, with death and the +wolves after him. + +“He came to himself in the arms of a strange woman, who had taken him +up, and was carrying him home. + +“The name of the woman was Sorrow--a wandering woman, a kind of gypsy, +always going about the world, and picking up lost things. Nobody likes +her, hardly anybody is civil to her; but when she has set anybody down +and is gone, there is often a look of affection and wonder and gratitude +sent after her. For all that, however, very few are glad to be found by +her again. + +“Sorrow carried him weeping home to his mother. His mother came out, and +took him in her arms. Sorrow made her courtesy, and went away. The boy +clung to his mother's neck, and said he was sorry. In the midst of her +joy his mother wept bitterly, for he had nearly broken her heart. She +could not get the wolves out of her mind. + +“But, alas! the boy forgot all, and was worse than ever. He grew more +and more cruel to his mother, and mocked at every word she said to him; +so that--” + +There came a cry from the gallery. The congregation started in sudden +terror to their feet. The rector stopped, and turning to the right, +stood gazing. In the front of the squire's pew stood Mrs. Wylder, white, +and speechless with rage. For a moment she stood shaking her fist at the +preacher. Then, in a hoarse broken voice, came the words-- + +“It's a lie. My boy was never cruel to me. It's a wicked lie.” + +She could say no more, but stood and glared, hate in her fierce eyes, +and torture in her colourless face. + +“Madam, you have betrayed yourself,” said the rector solemnly. “If your +son behaved well to you, it makes it the worse in you to behave ill to +your Father. From Sunday to Sunday you insult him with rude behaviour. I +tell you so in the face of this congregation, which knows it as well +as I. Hitherto I have held my tongue--from no fear of the rich, from +no desire to spare them deserved disgrace in the eyes of the poor, but +because I shrank from making the house of God a place of contention. +Madam, you have behaved shamefully, and I do my duty in rebuking you.” + +The whole congregation were on their feet, staring at her. A moment she +stood, and would have brazened out the stare. But she felt the eyes +of the motionless hundreds blazing upon her, and the culprit soul grew +naked in the presence of judging souls. Her nerve gave way; she turned +her back, left the pew, and fled from the church by the squire's door, +into the grounds of Wylder Hall. + +Happily Barbara was not in the church that morning. + +The next Sunday the squire's pew was empty. The red volume lay open on +its face upon the floor of it. + +Wingfold's dear plot had palled. He had rough-hewed his end, but the +divinity had shaped it. When the squire came to know what had taken +place, he made his first call on the rector. He said nothing about his +wife, but plainly wished it understood that he bore him no ill will for +what he had done. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. _THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER._ + +The rector had often wished his wife could in some natural way get hold +of Miss Wylder; he suspected something exceptionally fine in her: +how else could she, with such a father and such a mother, have such a +countenance? There must be a third factor in the affair, and one worth +knowing--namely herself! That she seemed to avoid being reckoned among +church-goers might be a point in her favour! What reports reached him of +her wild ways, mingled with exaggerated stories of her lawlessness, did +not shock him: what was true in them might spring from mere exuberance +of life, whose joy was her only law--and yet a real law to her! + +He had had no opportunity of learning either how peculiar the girl was, +or how capable. She was not yet up to his teaching; she had to have +other water to drink first, and was now approaching a source that might +have caused him anxiety for her, had he ever so little believed in +chance. But a shepherd is none the less a true shepherd that he leaves +plenty of liberty to the lamb to pick its own food. That its best +instincts may not be to the taste either of its natural guardians or the +public, is nothing against those instincts. Without appearing to their +guardians both strange and headstrong, some sheep would never get near +the food necessary to keep them alive. Confined to the provender even +their shepherds would have them contented withal, many would die. +Sometimes, to escape from the arid wastes of “society,” haunted with the +cries of its spiritual greengrocers, and find the pasture on which their +souls can live, they have to die, and climb the grassy slopes of the +heavenly hills. + +Barbara had as yet had no experience of pain--or of more at least than +came from sympathy with suffering--a sympathy which, though ready, could +hardly be deep in one who had never had a headache herself. To all dumb +suffering things, she was very gentle and pitiful; but her pity was like +that of a child over her doll. + +She was always glad to get away from home. While her father was paying +his long-delayed visit to the rector, she was flying over hedge and +ditch and rail, in a line for that gate of Mortgrange which Simon Armour +and his grandson found open when first the former took the latter to see +the place: Barbara had a key to it. + +She went with swift gliding step, like that of a red Indian, into the +library. Richard was piecing the broken cords of a great old folio--the +more easily that they were double--in order to re-attach the loosened +sheets and the hanging board, and so get the book ready for a new cover. +She carried in her hand something yet more sorely in need of mending--a +pigeon with a broken wing, which she had seen lying in the park, and had +dismounted to take. It kept opening and shutting its eyes, and she knew +that nothing could be done for it; but the mute appeal of the dying +thing had gone to her heart, and she wanted sympathy, whether for it or +for herself she could hardly have distinguished. How she came to wake +a little more just then, I cannot tell, but the fact is a joint in her +history. The jar to the pigeon's life affected her as a catastrophe. +She felt that there a crisis had come: a living conscious thing could +do nothing for its own life, and lay helpless. Say rather--seemed so to +lie. Oh, surely it is in reason that not a sparrow should fall to the +ground without the Father! To whom but the father of the children that +bemoan its fate, should the children carry his sparrow? But Barbara was +carrying her pigeon where was no help for the heart of either. + +“Ah, poor thing,” said Richard, “I fear we can do nothing for it! But it +will be at rest soon! It is fast going.” + +“Ah! but where?” said Barbara, to whom that moment came the question for +the first time. + +“Nowhere,” answered Richard. + +“How can that be? If I were going, I should be going somewhere! I +couldn't go nowhere if I tried ever so. I don't like you to say it is +going nowhere! Poor little thing! I won't let you go nowhere!” + +“Well!” returned Richard, a little bewildered, “what would you have me +say? You know what I mean! It is going not to be, that is all.” + +“That is all! How would _you_ like to be told you were going +nowhere--going not to be--that was all?” + +Richard saw that to declare abruptly his belief that he was himself as +much going nowhere as any pigeon that ever died, would probably be to +close the door between them. At the same time, if he left her to imagine +that he expected life for himself, but not for the animals, she must +think him selfish! Unwilling therefore to answer, he took refuge in his +genuine sympathy with suffering. + +“Is it not strange,” he said, and would have taken from her hands the +wounded bird, but she would not part with it, “that men should take +pleasure in killing--especially a creature like that, so full of +innocent content? It seems to me the greatest pity to stop such a life!” + +As he spoke there came upon him the dim sense of a foaming reef of +argument ahead--such as this: “Then there ought to be no death! And what +ought not to be, cannot be! But there is death: what then is death? If +it be a stopping of life, then that is which cannot be. But it may be +only a change in the form of life that looks like a stopping, and is +not! If Death be stronger than Life, so that he stops life, how then was +Life able so to flout him, that he, the thing that was not, arose from +the antenatal sepulchre on which Death sat throned in impotent negation +of entity, unable to preclude existence, and yet able to annihilate it? +Life alone is: nothingness is not; Death cannot destroy; he is not the +antagonist, not the opposite of life.” Some such argument Richard, I +say, saw vaguely through the gloom ahead, and began to beat to windward. + +“Did you ever notice,” he said, “in _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, +the point at which the dead bird falls from the neck of the man?” + +It was a point, however, at which neither he nor Barbara was capable of +seeing the depth of the poem. Richard thought it was the new-born love +of beauty that freed the mariner; he did not see that it was the love of +life, the new-born sympathy with life. + +“I don't even know what you are talking of,” answered Barbara. “Do tell +me. It sounds like something wonderful! Is it a story?” + +“Yes--a wonderful story.” + +Richard had not attempted to understand Coleridge's philosophy, taking +it for quite obsolete; and it was but doubtfully that he had made +trial of his poems. Happily choosing _Christabel_, however, for a +tasting-piece, he was immediately enchanted and absorbed; and never +again had he been so keenly aware of disappointment as when he came to +the end, and found, as an Irishman might say, that it was not there: a +lump gathered in his throat; he flung the book from him, and it was a +week before he could open it again. + +The next poem he tried was _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, which +he read with almost equal delight, bewitched with many an individual +phrase, with the melody unique of many a stanza, with the strangeness +of its speech, with the loveliness of its real, and the wildness of +its invented pictures. But he had not yet discovered, or even begun to +foresee the marvel of its whole. A man must know something of repentance +before he can understand _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_. + +The volume containing it had come into his hands as one of a set his +father had to bind. It belonged to a worshipper of Coleridge, who had +possessed himself of every edition of every book he had written, or had +had a share in writing. There he read first the final form of _The Rime_ +as it appeared in the _Sibylline Leaves_ of 1817: when he came to +look at that in the _Lyrical Ballads_, published in 1798, he found +differences many and great between the two. He found also in the set an +edition with a form of the poem differing considerably from the last as +well as the first. He had brought together and compared all these forms +of the poem, noting every minutest variation--a mode of study which, in +the case of a masterpiece, richly repays the student. It was no wonder, +therefore, that Richard had almost every word of it on the very tip of +his tongue. + +He began to repeat the ballad, and went on, never for a moment +intermitting his work. Without the least attempt at what is called +recitation, of which happily he knew nothing, he made both sense and +music tell, saying it as if he were for the hundredth time reading it +aloud for his own delight. If his pronunciation was cockneyish, it was +but a little so. + +The very first stanza took hold of Barbara. She sat down by Richard's +table, softly laid the dying bird in her lap, and listened with round +eyes and parted lips, her rapt soul sitting in her ears. + +But Richard had not gone far before he hesitated, his memory perplexed +between the differing editions. + +“Have you forgotten it? I am _so_ sorry!” said Barbara. “It _is_ +wonderful--not like anything I ever heard, or saw, or tasted before. It +smells like a New Zealand flower called--” Here she said a word Richard +had never heard, and could never remember. “I don't wonder at your +liking books, if you find things in them of that sort!” + +“I've not exactly forgotten it,” answered Richard; “but I've copied out +different editions for comparison, and they've got a little mixed in my +head.” + +“But surely the printers, with all their blunders and changes, can't +keep you from seeing what the author wrote!” + +“The editions I mean are those of the author himself. He kept making +changes, some of them very great changes. Not many people know the poem +as Coleridge first published it.” + +“Coleridge! Who was he?” + +“The man that wrote the poem.” + +“Oh! He altered it afterwards?” + +“Yes, very much.” + +“Did he make it better?” + +“Much better.” + +“Then why should you care any more for the first way of it?” + +“Just because it is different. A thing not so good may have a different +goodness. A man may not be so good as another man, and yet have some +good things in him the other has not. That implies that not every change +he made was for the better. And where he has put a better phrase, or +passage, the former may yet be good. So you see a new form may be much +better, and yet the old form remain much too good to be parted with. +In any case it is intensely interesting to see how and why he changed +a thing or its shape, and to ponder wherein it is for the better or the +worse. That is to take it like a study in natural history. In that we +learn how an animal grows different to meet a difference in the supply +of its needs; in the varying editions of a poem we see how it alters to +meet a new requirement of the poet's mind. I don't mean the cases are +parallel, but they correspond somehow. If I were a schoolmaster, I +should make my pupils compare different forms of the same poem, and find +out why the poet made the changes. That would do far more for them, I +think, than comparing poets with each other. The better poets are--that +is, the more original they are--the less there is in them to compare.” + +“But I want to hear the rest of the story. Never mind the differences in +the telling of it.” + +“I'm afraid I can't get into the current of it now.” + +“You can look at the book! It must be somewhere among all these!” + +“No doubt. But I haven't time to look for it now.” + +“It won't take you a minute to find it.” + +“I must not leave my work.” + +“It wouldn't cost you more than one tiny minute!” pleaded Barbara like a +child. + +“Let me explain to you, miss:--I find the only way to be _sure_ I +don't cheat, is to know I haven't stopped an instant to do anything for +myself. Sometimes I have stopped for a while; and then when I wanted +to make up the time, I couldn't be quite sure how much I owed, and that +made me give more than I needed--which I didn't like when I would gladly +have been doing something else. When the time is my own, it is of far +more value to me for the insides than to my employer for the outsides +of the books. So you see, for my own sake as well as his, I cannot stop +till my time is up.” + +“That _is_ being honest!” + +“Who can consent to be dishonest! It is the meanest thing to undertake +work and then imagine you show spirit by shirking what you can of it. +There's a lot of fellows like that! I would as soon pick a pocket as +undertake and not do!” + +Barbara begged no more. + +“But I can talk while I work, miss,” Richard went on; “and I will try +again to remember.” + +“Please, please do.” + +Richard thought a little, and presently resuming the poem, went on to +the end of the first part. As he finished the last stanza-- + + God save thee, ancient Mariner, + From the fiends that plague thee thus!-- + Why look'st thou so?--With my cross-bow + I shot the _Albatross!_'”-- + +“Ah!” cried Barbara, “I see now what made you think of the poem!”--and +she looked down at the throbbing bird in her lap. + +It opened its dark eyes once more--with a reeling, pitiful look at her, +Barbara thought--quivered a little, and lay still. She burst into tears. + +Richard dropped his work, and made a step toward her. + +“Never mind,” she said. “One has got to cry _so_ much, and I may as well +cry for the bird! I'm all right now, thank you! Please go on. The bird +is dead, and I'm glad. I will let it lie a little, and then bury it. If +it be anywhere, perhaps it will one day know me, and then it will love +me. Please go on with the poem. It will make me forget. I'm not bound to +remember, am I--where I'm not to blame, I mean, and cannot help?” + +“Certainly not!” acquiesced Richard, and began the second part. + +“I see! I see!” cried Barbara, wiping her eyes. “They were cross with +him for killing the bird, not because they loved the beautiful creature, +but because it was unlucky to kill him! And then when nothing but good +came, they said it was quite right to kill him, and told lies of him, +and said he was a bad bird, and brought the fog and mist!--I wonder +what's coming to them!--That's not the end, is it? It can't be!” + +“No; it's not nearly done yet. It's only beginning.” + +“I'm so glad! Do go on.” + +She was eager as any child. Coleridge could not have desired a better +listener. + +“I know! _I_ know!” she said presently. “_We_ were caught in a calm as +we came home! My father is fond of the sea, and brought us round the +Cape in a sailing-vessel. It was horrid. It lasted only three days, but +I felt as if I should die. It wasn't long enough, I suppose, to draw out +the creeping things.” + +“Perhaps it wasn't near enough to the equator for them,” answered +Richard, and went on:-- + + “Ah! well a-day! what evil looks + Had I from old and young; + Instead of the cross, the Albatross + About my neck was hung.” + +“Poor man! And in such weather!” exclaimed Barbara. “And such a huge +creature! I see! They thought now the killing of the bird had brought +the calm, and they would have their revenge! A bad set, those sailors! +People that deserve punishment always want to punish. Do go on.” + +When the skeleton-ship came, her eyes grew with listening like those of +one in a trance. + +“What a horrid, live dead woman!” she said. “Her whiteness is worse than +any blackness. But I wish he had told us what Death was like!” + +“In the first edition,” returned Richard, much delighted that she missed +what constructive symmetry required, “there _is_ a description of Death. +I doubt if you would like it, though. You don't like horrid things?” + +“I do--if they should be horrid, and are horrid enough.” + +“Coleridge thought afterwards it was better to leave it out!” + +“Tell it me, anyhow.” + + “His bones were black with many a crack, + All black and bare, I ween; + Jet-black and bare, save where with rust, + Of mouldy damps and charnel crust, + They were patched with purple and green. + +“--There! What do you think of that?” + +“_He_ is nothing like so horrid as the woman!” + +“She is more horrid in the first edition.” + +“How?” + + “_Her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free, + _Her_ locks are yellow as gold; + Her skin is as white as leprosy, + And she is far liker Death than he; + Her flesh makes the still air cold.” + +“I do think that is worse. Tell me again how the other goes.” + + “The Night-Mare _Life-in-death_ was she, + Who thicks man's blood with cold.” + +“Yes, the other is worse! I can hardly tell why, except it be that you +get at the sense of it easier. What does the Nightmare Life-in-Death +mean?” + +“I don't know. I can't quite get at it.” + +How should he? Richard was too close to the awful phantom to know that +this was her portrait. + +“There's another dreadful stanza in the first edition,” he went on. “It +is repeated in the second, but left out in the last. I fancy the poet +let himself be overpersuaded to omit it. The poem was not actually +printed without it until after his death: he had only put it in the +_errata_, to be omitted.--When the woman whistles with joy at having won +the ancient Mariner, + +“'A gust of wind sterte up behind,' + +“--as if, like the sailors, she had whistled for it:-- + + “'A gust of wind sterte up behind, + And whistled through his bones; + Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth, + Half whistles and half groans;' + +“and the spectre-bark is blown along by this breath coming out of the +bosom of the skeleton.” + +“I think it was a great mistake to leave that verse out!” said Barbara. +“There is no nasty horror in it! There _is_ a little in the description +of Death!” + +“I think with you,” returned Richard, more and more astonished at +the insight of a girl who had read next to nothing. “Our lecturer at +King's,” he went on, “pointed out to us, in this part, what some call a +blunder.” + +“What is it?” + +“I will give you the verses again; and you see if you can pick it out.” + +“Do, please.” + +“--Till clombe above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright +star Within the nether tip.” + +“I never saw a star there! But I see nothing wrong.” + +“Which is the nearest to us of the heavenly bodies?” + +“The moon, I suppose.” + +“Certainly:--how, then, could a star come between us and it? For if the +star were within the tip of the moon, it must be between us and the dark +part of the moon!” + +“I see! How stupid of me! But let me think!--If the star were just on +the edge of the moon, between the horns, it would almost look as if it +were within the tips--might it not?” + +“That's the best that can be said for it anyhow,--except indeed that the +poor ignorant sailor might, in the midst of such horrors, well make the +blunder.--By the way, in the first edition it stood as you have just +said: the line was, + +“'Almost within the tips.'” + +“What did he change it to?” + +“He made it-- + +“'Within the nether tip.'” + +“Why did he change it?” + +“You would see that at the first glance, if you were used to riming.” + +“Are you a poet, then, as well as a blacksmith and a bookbinder?” + +“Too much of a poet, I hope, to imagine myself more than a whittler of +reeds!” answered Richard. + +He was not sorry, however, to let Barbara know him for a poor relation +of the high family of poets. In truth, what best enabled him to +understand their work, was the humble work of the same sort he did +himself. + +She did not understand what he meant by a _whittler of reeds_, but she +rightly took what he said for a humble affirmative. + +“I begin to be frightened at you!” she rejoined, half meaning it. “Who +knows what else you may not be!” + +“I am little enough of anything,” answered Richard, “but nothing that I +do not wish to be more of.” + +A short silence followed. + +“You have not told me yet why he changed that line!” resumed Barbara. + +“Better wait until I can show it you in the book: then you will see at +once.” + +“Please, go on then. I don't know anything about the poem yet! I don't +know why it was written!” + +“You like some dreams, though they have no reason in them, don't you?” + +“Yes; but then I suppose there is reason in the poem!” + +“There is, indeed!” said Richard, and went on. + +But presently she stopped him. + +“One thing I should like to know before we go further,” she said; “--why +they all fell down except the ancient Mariner.” + +“You remember that Death and the woman were casting dice?” + +“Yes.” + +“It is not very clear, but this is how I understand the thing:--They +diced for the crew, one by one; Death won every one till they came to +the last, the ancient Mariner himself, and the woman, a sort of live +Death, wins him. That is why she cries, 'I've won, I've won!' and +whistles thrice--though she has won only one out of two hundred. I +should think she was used to Death having more than she, else she +wouldn't have been so pleased. Perhaps she seldom got one!” + +“Yes, I see all that. But things oughtn't to go by the casting of dice. +Money may, for that does not signify, but not the souls and bodies +of men. It should not be the way in a poem any more than in the open +world.--Let me think!--I have it!--They were not good men, those +sailors! They first blamed, and then justified, and then again blamed +and cruelly punished the poor mariner, who had done wrong certainly, but +was doubtless even then sorry for it. He was cruel to a bird he did not +know, and they were cruel to a man they did know! So they are taken, +and he is left--to come well out of it at last, I hope.--Yes, it's all +right! Now you can go on.” + +She said nothing as he showed her the deck strewn so thick with the dead +bodies, whose cursing eyes all looked one way; but when the heavenly +contrast came:-- + + The moving Moon went up the sky, + And nowhere did abide: + Softly she was going up, + And a star or two beside;-- + +she gave a deep sigh of delight, and said-- + +“Ah, don't I know her, the beauty! Isn't it just many a time she has +made me sick with the love of her, and her peace, and her ways of +looking, and walking, and talking--for talk she does to those that can +listen hard! I dare say, in this old country where she's been about so +long, you will think it silly to make so much of her; but you don't know +here what it is to have her night after night for your one companion! +She never grows a downright friend, though--a friend you've got at the +heart of! She always looks at you as if she were saying--'Yes, yes; I +know what you are thinking! but I have that in me you can never know, +and I can never tell! It will go down with me to the grave of the great +universe, and no one will ever know it! It is so lovely!--and oh, so +sad!'” + +She was silent. Richard could not answer. He saw her far away like +the moon she spoke of. She was growing to him a marvel and a mystery. +Something strange seemed befalling him. Was she weaving a spell about +his soul? Was she fettering him for her slave? Was she one of the wild, +bewildering creatures of ancient lonely belief, that are the souls of +the loveliest things, but can detach themselves from them, and wander +out in garments more immediately their own? Was she salamander or sylph, +naiad or undine, oread or dryad?--But then she had such a head, and they +were all rather silly! + +When the ballad told how silvery were the sea-snakes in the moonlight, +and how gorgeously varied in the red shadow, Richard looked for her to +show delight in the play of their colours; but, though the sweet strong +little mouth smiled, her brows looked more puzzled than pleased--which +was a thing noteworthy. + +Any marvel in Nature, however new, Barbara would have welcomed with +bare delight; she would have asked neither the why, nor the how, nor the +final cause of the phenomenon--as if, being natural, it must be right, +and she needed not trouble herself; but here, in this poem, a world +born of the imagination of a man, she wanted to know about everything, +whether it was, or would be, or ought to be just so--whether, in a word, +every fact was souled with a reason, as it ought to be. Perhaps she +demanded such satisfaction too soon; perhaps she ought to have waited +for the whole, and, having found that a harmonious thing, then first +have inquired into the truth of its parts; but so it was: she must +know as she went, that she might know when she arrived! But in this she +revealed a genuine artistic faculty--that she gave herself up to the +poet, and allowed him to inspire her, yet _would_ have reason from him. + +Richard went on:-- + + “O happy living things! No tongue + Their beauty might declare; + A spring of love gushed from my heart, + And I blessed them unaware! + Sure my kind saint took pity on me, + And I blessed them unaware. + +“The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The +Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.” + +Barbara jumped up, clapping her hands with delight. + +“I knew something was going to happen!” she cried. “I knew it was coming +all right!” + +“You have not heard the end yet! You don't know what may be coming!” + protested Richard. + +“Nothing _can_ go wrong now! The man's love is awake, and he will +be sorrier and sorrier for what he did! Instead of saying, 'The +wrigglesome, slimy things!' he blesses them; and because he is going to +be a friend to the other creatures in the house, and live on good terms +with them, the body he had killed tumbles from his neck; the bad deed +is gone down into the depth of the great sea, and he is able to say his +prayers again;--no, not that exactly; it must be something better than +saying prayers now!”--She paused a moment, then added, “It must be +something I think I don't know yet!” and sat down. + +Richard heard and admired: he thought that as she had perceived there +was something better than saying prayers, she would pray no more! + +“Go on; go on,” she said. “But if you like to stop, I shan't mind. I +have no fear now. It's all going right, and must soon come all right!” + +“O sleep! It is a gentle thing,” + +said Richard, going on. + +“There it is!” she interrupted. “I knew it was all coming right! He can +sleep now!” + + “O sleep! It is a gentle thing, + Beloved from pole to pole! + To Mary queen the praise be given! + She sent the gentle deep from Heaven, + That slid into my soul.” + +Some one was in the room, the door of which had been open all the time. +The sky was so cloudy, and the twilight so far advanced, that neither of +them, Barbara absorbed in the poem and Richard in the last of his day's +work, had heard any one enter. + +“Why don't you ring for a lamp?” said Lestrange. + +“There is no occasion; I have just done,” answered Richard. + +“You cannot surely see in this light!” said Arthur, who was +short-sighted. “You certainly were not at your work when I came into the +room!” + +He thought Richard had caught up the piece of leather he was paring, in +order to deceive him. + +“Indeed, sir, I was.” + +“You were not. You were reading!” + +“I was not reading, sir. I was busy with the last of my day's work.” + +“Do not tell me you were not reading: I heard you!” + +“You did hear me, sir; but you did not hear me reading,” rejoined +Richard, growing angry with the tone of the young man, and with his +unreadiness to believe him. + +Many workmen, having told a lie, would have been more indignant at +not being believed, than was Richard speaking the truth; still, he was +growing angry. + +“You must have a wonderful memory, then!” said Lestrange. “But, excuse +me, we don't care to hear your voice in the house.” + +The same moment, he either discovered, or pretended to discover, +Barbara's presence. + +“I beg your pardon, Miss Wylder!” he said. “I did not know he was +amusing you! I did not see you were in the room!” + +“I suppose,” returned Barbara--and it savoured of the savage Lestrange +sometimes called her--“you will be ordering the nightingales not to sing +in _your_ apple-trees next!” + +“I don't understand you!” + +“Neither do you understand Mr. Tuke, or you would not speak to him that +way!” + +She rose and walked to the door, but turned as she went, and added-- + +“He was repeating the loveliest poem I ever heard--_The Rime of the +Ancient Mariner_.--I didn't know there could be such a poem!” she added +simply. + +“It is not one I care about. But you need not take it second-hand from +Tuke: I will lend it you.” + +“Thank you!” said Barbara, in a tone which was not of gratitude, and +left the room. + +Lestrange stood for a moment, but finding nothing suitable to say, +turned and followed her, while Richard bit his lip to keep himself +silent. He knew, if he spoke, there would be an end; and he did not want +this to be his last sight of the wonderful creature! + +Barbara went to the door with the intention of going to the stables for +Miss Brown and galloping straight home. But she bethought herself that +so she might seem to be ashamed. She was not Arthur's guest! He had +been insolent to her friend, who had done more for her already than ever +Arthur was likely to do, but that was no reason why she should run +away from him--just the contrary! She _would_ like to punish him for it +somehow!--not shoot him, for she would not kill a pigeon, and to kill a +man would be worse, though he wasn't so nice as a pigeon!--but she would +like--yes, she _would_ like to give him just three good cuts across the +shoulders with her new riding-whip! What right had he to speak so to +his superior! By being a _true_ workman, Mr. Tuke was a gentleman! Could +Arthur Lestrange have talked like that? Could he have spoken the poetry +like that? The bookbinder was worth a hundred of him! Could Arthur shoe +a horse? What if the working man were to turn out the real lord of the +creation, and the gentleman have to black his boots! There was something +like it in the gospel! + +She did not know that in general the working man is as foolish and unfit +as the rich man; that he only wants to be rich, and trample on his own +past. The working man _may_ perish like the two hundred of the crew, and +the rich man _may_ be saved like the Ancient Mariner! + +It is the poor man that gives the rich man all the pull on him, by +cherishing the same feelings as the rich man concerning riches, by +fancying the rich man because of his riches the greater man, and longing +to be rich like him. A man that can _do_ things is greater than any man +who only _has_ things. True, a rich man can get mighty things done, but +he does not do them. He may be much the greater for willing them to be +done, but he is not the greater for the actual doing of them. + +“At any rate,” said Barbara to herself, “I like this working man better +than that gentleman!” + +Richard stood for a while boiling with indignation. He would have cared +less if he had been sure he had answered him properly, but he could not +remember what he had said. + +The clock struck the hour that ended his workday. Instead of sitting +down to read, he set out for the smithy. It was not a week since he had +seen his grandfather, but he wanted motion, and desired a human face +that belonged to him. It was rather dark when he reached it, but the old +man had not yet dropped work. The sparks were flying wild about his gray +head as Richard drew near. + +“Can I help you, grandfather?” he said. + +“No, no, lad; your hands are too soft by this time--with your bits of +brass wheels, and scraps of leather, and needles, and paste! No, no, +lad;--thou cannot help the old man to-night.--But you're not in earnest, +are you?” he added, looking up suddenly. “You 'ain't left your place?” + +“No, but my day's work being over, why shouldn't I help you to get yours +over! When first I came you expected me to do so!” + +“Look here, lad!--as a man gets older he comes to think more of fair +play, and less of his rights: it seems to me that not your time only, +but your strength as well belongs to the man who hires you; and if you +weary yourself helping me, who have no claim, you cannot do so much or +so good work for your master!--Do you see sense in that?” + +“Indeed I do! I think you are quite right.” + +“It is strange,” Simon went on, “how age makes you more particular! The +thing I would have done without thinking when I was young, I think +twice of now. Is that what we were sent here for--to grow honest, I +wonder?--Depend upon it,” he resumed after a moment's silence, “there's +a somewhere where the thing's taken notice of! There's a somebody as +thinks about it!” + +After more talk, and a cup of tea at the cottage, Richard set out for +the lodgeless gate, already mentioned more than once, to which the +housekeeper had lent him a key. + +He had not got far into the park, when to his surprise he perceived, a +little way off on the grass, a small figure gliding swiftly toward him +through the dusk rather than the light of the moon, which, but just +above the horizon, sent little of her radiance to the spot. It was +Barbara. + +“I have been watching for you ever so long!” she said. “They told me you +had gone out, and I thought you might come home this way.” + +“I wish I had known! I wouldn't have kept you waiting,” returned +Richard. + +“I want the rest of the poem,” she said. “It was horrid to have Arthur +interrupt us! He was abominably rude too.” + +“He certainly had no right to speak to me as he did. And if he had +confessed himself wrong, or merely said he had made a mistake, I should +have thought no more about it. I hope it is not true you are going to +marry him, miss!--because--” + +“If I thought one of the family said so, I would sleep in the park +to-night. I would not enter the house again. When I marry, it will be +a gentleman; and Mr. Lestrange is not a gentleman--at least he did not +behave like one to-day. Come, tell me the rest of the poem. We have +plenty of time here.” + +The young bookbinder was perplexed. He had not much knowledge of the +world, but he could not bear the thought of the servants learning that +they were in the park together. At the same time he saw that he must not +even hint at imprudence. Her will was not by him to be scanned! She must +be allowed to know best! A single tone of hesitation would be an insult! +He must take care of her without seeming to do so! If they walked +gently, they would finish the poem as they came near the house: there he +would leave her, and return by the lodge-gate. + +“Where did we leave off?” he said. + +His brief silence had seemed to Barbara but a moment spent in recalling. + +“We left off at the place where the bird fell from his neck--no, just +after that, where he falls asleep, as well he might, after it was gone.” + +The moon was now peeping, in little spots of light, through the higher +foliage, and casting a doubtful, ghostly sediment of shine around them. +The night was warm. Glow-worms lay here and there, brooding out green +light in the bosom of the thick soft grass. There was no wind save what +the swift wing of a bat, sweeping close to their heads, would now and +then awake. The creature came and vanished like an undefined sense of +evil at hand. But it was only Richard who thought that; nothing such +crossed the starry clearness of Barbara's soul. Her skirt made a buttony +noise with the heads of the rib-grass. Her red cloak was dark in the +moonlight. She threw back the hood, and coming out of its shadow like +another moon from a cloud, walked the earth with bare head. Her hands +too were bare, and glimmered in the night-gleam. He saw the rings on the +small fingers shimmer and shine: she was as fond of colour and flash +as lord St. Albans! Higher and higher rose the moon. Her light on the +grass-blades wove them into a carpet with its weft of faint moonbeams. +The small dull mirrors of the evergreen leaves glinted in the thickets, +as the two went by, like the bits of ill-polished glass in an Indian +tapestry. The moon was everywhere, filling all the hollow over-world, +and for ever alighting on their heads. Far away they saw the house, +a remote something, scarce existent in the dreaming night, the +gracious-ghastly poem, and the mingling, harmonizing moon. It was much +too far away to give them an anxious thought, and for long it seemed, +like death, to be coming no nearer; but they were moving toward it +all the time, and it was even growing a move insistent fact. Thus they +walked at once in the two blended worlds of the moonlight and the tale, +while Richard half-chanted the music-speech of the most musical of +poets, telling of the roaring wind that the mariner did not feel, of the +flags of electric light, of the dances of the wan stars, of the sighing +of the sails, of the star-dogged moon, and the torrent-like falls of the +lightning down the mountainous cloud--for so Barbara, who had seen two +or three tropical thunder-storms, explained to Richard the lightning +which + + “fell with never a jag, + A river steep and wide;” + +--until that groan arose from the dead men, and the bodies heaved +themselves up on their feet, and began to work the ropes, and worked on +till sunrise, and the mariner knew that not the old souls but angels had +entered into them, by their gathering about the mast, and sending such a +strange lovely hymn through their dead throats up to the sun. + +When Richard repeated the stanza-- + + “It ceased; yet still the sails made on + A pleasant noise till noon, + A noise like of a hidden brook + In the leafy month of June, + That to the sleeping woods all night + Singeth a quiet tune;” + +Barbara uttered a prolonged “Oh!” and again was silent, listening to the +talk of the elemental spirits, feeling the very wind of home that blew +on the mariner, seeing the lighthouse, and the hill, and the weathercock +on the church-spire, and the white bay, and the shining seraphs with +the crimson shadows, and the sinking ship, and the hermit that made the +mariner tell his story as he was telling it now. + +But when Richard came to the words-- + + “He prayeth well, who loveth well + Both man and bird and beast. + He prayeth best, who loveth best + All things both great and small, + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all,” + +she clapped her hands together; and when he ended them, she cried out-- + +“I was sure of it! I knew something would come to tie it all up together +into one bundle! That's it! That's it! The love of everything is +the garden-bed out of which grow the roses of prayer!--But what am +I saying!” she added, checking herself; “I love everything, at least +everything that comes near me, and I never pray!” + +“Of course not! Why should you?” said Richard. + +“Why should I not?” + +“You would if it were reasonable!” + +“I will, then! To love all the creatures and not have a word to say to +the God that made them for loving them before-hand--is that reasonable?” + +“No, if a God did make them.” + +“They could not make themselves!” + +“No; nothing could make itself.” + +“Then somebody must have made them!” + +“Who?” + +“Why, the one that could and did--who else?” + +“We know nothing about such a somebody. All we know is, that there they +are, and we have got to love them!” + +“Ah!” she said, and looked up into the wide sky, where now the +“wandering moon” was alone, + + Like one that had been led astray + Through the heaven's wide pathless way, + +and gazed as if she searched for the Somebody. “I should like to see the +one that made that!” she said at last. “Think of knowing the very +person that made that poor pigeon, and has got it now!--and made Miss +Brown--and the wind! I must find him! He can't have made me and not care +when I ask him to speak to me! You say he is nowhere! I don't believe +there is any nowhere, so he can't be there! Some people may be content +with things; I shall get tired of them, I know, if I don't get behind +them! A thing is nothing without what things it! A gift is nothing +without what gives it! Oh, dear! I know what I mean, but I can't say +it!” + +“You don't know what you mean, but you do say it!” thought Richard. + +He was nowise repelled by her enthusiasm, for there was in it nothing +assailant, nothing too absurdly superstitious. He did not care to answer +her. + +They went walking toward the house and were silent. The moon went on +with her silentness: she never stops being silent. When they felt near +the house, they fell to walking slower, but neither knew it. Barbara +spoke again: + +“Just fancy!” she said, “--if God were all the time at our backs, giving +us one lovely thing after another, trying to make us look round and +see who it was that was so good to us! Imagine him standing there, and +wondering when his little one would look round, and see him, and burst +out laughing--no, not laughing--yes, laughing--laughing with delight--or +crying, I don't know which! If I had him to love as I should love one +like that, I think I should break my heart with loving him--I should +love him to the killing of me! What! all the colours and all the shapes, +and all the lights, and all the shadows, and the moon, and the wind, and +the water!--and all the creatures--and the people that one would love so +if they would let you!--and all--” + +“And all the pain, and the dying, and the disease, and the wrongs, and +the cruelty!” interposed Richard. + +She was silent. After a moment or two she said-- + +“I think I will go in now. I feel rather cold. I think there must be a +fog, though I can't see it.” + +She gave a little shiver. He looked in her face. Was it the moon, or +was it something in her thoughts that made the sweet countenance look +so gray? Could his mere suggestion of the reverse, the wrong side of the +web of creation, have done it? Surely not! + +“I think I want some one to say _must_ to me!” she said, after another +pause. “I feel as if--” + +There she stopped. Richard said nothing. Some instinct told him he might +blunder. + +He stood still. Barbara went on a few steps, then turned and said-- + +“Are you not going in?” + +“Not just yet,” he answered. “Please to remember that if I can do +anything for you,--” + +“You are very kind. I am much obliged to you. If you know another +rime,--But I think I shall have to give up poetry.” + +“It will be hard to find another so good,” returned Richard. + +“Good-night,” she said. + +“Good-night, miss!” answered Richard, and walked away, with a loss at +his heart. The poem has already ceased to please her! He had made the +lovely lady more thoughtful, and less happy than before! + +“She has been taught to believe in a God,” he said to himself. “She +is afraid he will be angry with her, because, in her company, I dared +question his existence! A generous God--isn't he! If he be anywhere, why +don't he let us see him? How can he expect us to believe in him, if he +never shows himself? But if he did, why should I worship him for +being, or for making me? If I didn't want him, and I don't, I certainly +shouldn't worship him because I saw him. I couldn't. If Nature is cruel, +as she certainly is, and he made her, then he is cruel too! There cannot +be such a God, or, if there be, it cannot be right to worship him!” + +He did not reflect that if he had wanted him, he would not have waited +to see him before he worshipped him. + +But Barbara was saying to herself-- + +“What if he has shown himself to me some time--one of those nights, +perhaps, when I was out till the sun rose--and I didn't know him!--How +frightful if there should be nobody at all up there--nobody anywhere all +round!” + +She stared into the milky, star-sapphire-like blue, as if, out of the +sweetly veiled terror-gulf, she would, by very gazing, draw the living +face of God. + +Verily the God that knows _how not_ to reveal himself, must also know +how _best_ to reveal himself! If there be a calling child, there must be +an answering father! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. _A HUMAN GADFLY_. + +From so early an age had Richard been accustomed to despise a certain +form he called God, which stood in the gallery of his imagination, +carved at by the hands of successive generations of sculptors, some +hard, some feeble, some clever, some stupid, all conventional and devoid +of prophetic imagination, that his antagonism had long taken the shape +of an angry hostility to the notion of any God whatever. Richard could +see a thing to be false, that is, he could deny, but he was not yet +capable either of discovering or receiving what was true, because he had +not yet set himself to know the truth. To oppose, to refuse, to deny, is +not _to know the truth_, is not _to be true_ any more than it is to be +false. Whatever good may lie in the destroying of the false, the best +hammer of the iconoclast will not serve withal to carve the celestial +form of the Real; and when the iconoclast becomes the bigot of negation, +and declares the non-existence of any form worthy of worship, because he +has destroyed so many unworthy, he passes into a fool. That he has never +conceived a deity such as he could worship, is a poor ground to any but +the man himself for saying such cannot exist; and to him it is but a +ground lightly vaulted over the vacuity self-importance. Such a divine +form may yet stand in the adytum of this or that man whom he and the +world count an idiot. + +Into the workshop of Richard's mind was now introduced, by this one +disclosure of the mind of Barbara, a new idea of divinity, vague indeed +as new, but one with which he found himself compelled to have some +dealing. One of the best services true man can do a neighbour, is to +persuade him--I speak in a parable--to house his children for a while, +that he may know what they are: the children of another may be the +saving of his children and his whole house. Alas for the man the +children of whose brain are the curse of the household into which they +are received! But from Barbara's house Richard had taken into his a +vital protoplasmic idea that must work, and would never cease to work +until the house itself was all divine--the idea, namely, of a being to +call God, who was a delight to think of, a being concerning whom the +great negation was that of everything Richard had hitherto associated +with the word God. The one door to admit this formal notion was hard to +open; and when admitted, the figure was not easy to set up so that it +could be looked at. The human niche where the idea of a God must stand, +was in Richard's house occupied by the most hideous falsity. On the +pedestal crouched the goblin of a Japanese teapot. + +It was not pleasant to Richard to imagine any one with rights over him. +It may be that some persist in calling up the false idea of such a one +hitherto presented to them, in order to avoid feeling obligation to +believe in him. For the notion of a God is one from which naturally +a thoughtful man must feel more or less recoil while as yet he knows +nothing of the being himself, or of the nature of his creative rights, +the rights of perfect, self-refusing, devoted fatherhood. It is one +thing to seem to know with the brain, quite another to know with the +heart. But even in the hope-lighted countenance of Barbara, even in the +tones in which she suggested the presence of a soul that meant and was +all that the beautiful world hinted and seemed, Richard could not fail +to meet something of the true idea of a God. + +Naturally also, his notion of the God in whom he felt that Barbara was +at least ready to believe, assumed something of the look of Barbara who +was being drawn toward him; so that now the graces of the world, all its +lovely impacts upon his senses, began to be mixed up in his mind with +Barbara and her God. Barbara was beginning to infect him with--shall +I call it the superstition of a God? Whatever it may be called, it was +very far from being religion yet. The fact was only this--that the idea +of a God worth believing in, was coming a little nearer to him, was +becoming to him a little more thinkable. + +He began to feel his heart drawn at times, in some strange, tenderer +fashion, hitherto unknown to him, to the blue of the sky, especially +in the first sweetness of a summer morning. His soul would now and then +seem to go out of him, in a passion of embrace, to the simplest flower: +the flower would be, for a moment, just its self to him. He would spread +out his arms to the wind, now when it met him in its strength, now when +it but kissed his face. He never consented with himself that it was one +force in all the forms that drew him--that perhaps it was the very God, +the All in all about him. Neither did he question much with himself as +to how the development, rather than change, had begun. Whether God did +this, or was this, or it was only the possessing Barbara that cast her +light out of his eyes on the things he saw and felt, he scarcely asked; +but fully he recognised the fact that Nature was more alive than she +ever had been to him who had always loved her. + +The thought of Barbara went on growing dear to him. He never pondered +anything but the girl herself, cherished no dreams of her becoming more +to him, of her ever being nearer than away there; just to know her was +now, and henceforward ever would be the gladness of his life. If that +life was but for a season; if the very core of life was decay; if life +was because nobody could help its being; if it died because no one could +keep it from dying; yet were there two facts fit almost to embalm the +body of this living death: Barbara, and the world which was the body +of Barbara! So life carried the day, if but the day, and the heart of +Richard rejoiced in the midst of perishings. Only, the night was coming +in which no man can rejoice. + +Was he then presuming to be in love with Barbara? I do not care to meet +the question. If I knew what the mysterious word, _love_, meant, I might +be able to answer it, but what should I thus gain or give? I know he +loved her. I know that a divine power of truth and beauty had laid hold +upon him, and was working in him as the powers of God alone can work +in man, for they are the same by which he lives and moves and has his +being, and to life are more than meat and drink, than sun and air. + +Instead of blaming as a matter of course the person who does not believe +in a God, we should think first whether his notional God is a God that +ought, or a God that ought not to be believed in. Perhaps he only is to +be blamed who, by inattention to duty, has become less able to believe +in a God than he was once: because he did not obey the true voice, +whencesoever it came, God may have to let him taste what it would be +to have no God. For aught I know, a man may have been born of so many +generations of unbelief, that now, at this moment, he cannot believe; +that now, at this moment, he has no notion of a God at all, and cannot +care whether there be a God or not; but he can mind what he knows he +ought to mind. That will, that alone can clear the moral atmosphere, and +make it possible for the true idea of a God to be born into it. + +For some time Richard saw little of Barbara. + +The heads of the house did not interfere with him. Lady Ann would now +and then sail through the room like an iceberg; sir Wilton would come +in, give a glance at the shelves and a grin, and walk out again with a +more or less gouty gait; so much was about all their contact. Arthur was +a little ashamed of having spoken to him as he did, and had again become +in a manner friendly. He had seen several decaying masses, among the +rest the Golding of their difference, become books in his hands, and +again he had grown sufficiently interested in the workman to feel in him +something more than the workman. He was on the way to perceive that, in +certain insignificant things, such as imagination, reading, insight, and +general faculty, not to mention conscience, generosity, and goodness +of heart, Richard was out of sight before the ruck of gentlemen. He +saw already that in some things, thought a good deal of at his college, +Richard was more capable than himself. He found in him too what seemed +to him a rare notion of art. In truth Richard's advance in this region +was as yet but small, for he was guided only by his limited efforts in +verse; none the less, however, was he far ahead of Arthur, who saw only +what was shown him. In literature Arthur had already learned something +from Richard, and knew it. He had, indeed, without knowing it, begun to +look up to him. + +Richard also had discovered good in Arthur--among other things a careful +regard to his word, and to his father's tenantry. There was of course, +in a scanty nature like his, a good deal of the lord bountiful mingled +with his behaviour to his social inferiors on the property: he posed to +himself as a condescending landlord. + +The only one in the house who gave Richard trouble, was the child +Victoria. The way she always took to show her liking, was to annoy its +object. Never was name less fitting than hers: there was no victory in +her. She could but fly about like veriest mosquito. Richard let her come +and go unheeded, except when her proximity to his work made him anxious. +But the little vixen would not consent to be naught any smallest while. +She would rather be abused than remain unnoticed. When she found that +her standing and staring procured no attention from the bookbinder, she +would begin to handle his tools, and ask what this and that was for, +giving, like a woman of fashion, no heed to any answer he accorded her. +Learning thus, that is, by experiment, how to annoy him, she did not let +opportunity lack. When school was over in the morning, and she could +go where she pleased, she went often to the library; and as no one +willingly asked where she was, the chief pleasure of her acquaintance +lying in the assurance that she was nowhere at hand, Richard had to +endure many things from her; and things that do not seem worth enduring, +are not unfrequently the hardest to endure. + +The behaviour of the child grew worse and worse. She would more than +touch everything, and that thing the most persistently which Richard was +most anxious to have let alone, causing him no little trouble at times +to set right what she had injured. Worst of all was her persecution when +she found him using gold-leaf. She would come behind him and blow the +film away just as he had got it flat on his cushion, or laid on the spot +where his tool was about to fix a portion of it. Her mischief was not +even irradiated by childish laughter; there was never any sign of +frolic on her monkey face, except the steely glitter of her sharp, black +bead-eyes, might be supposed to contain some sprinkle of fun in its +malice. Expostulation was not of the slightest use, and sometimes it was +all Richard could do to keep his hands off her. Now she would look as +stolid as if she did not understand a word he said; now pucker up her +face into a most unpleasant grin of derision and contemptuous defiance. + +One day when he happened to be using the polishing-iron, Vixen, as her +brothers called her, came in, and began to play with the paste. Richard +turned with the iron in his hand, which he had just taken from the +brasier. He was rubbing it bright and clean, and she noted this, but had +not seen him take it from the fire: she caught at it, to spoil it with +her pasty fingers. As quickly she let it go, but did not cry, though her +eyes filled. Richard saw, and his heart gave way. He caught the little +hand so swift to do evil, and would have soothed its pain. She pulled +it from him, crying, “You nasty man! How dare you!” and ran to the door, +where she turned and made a hideous face at him. The same moment, by a +neighbouring door that opened from another passage, in came Barbara, and +before Vixen was well aware of her presence, had dealt her such a box on +the ear that she burst into a storm of wrathful weeping. + +“You're a brute, Bab,” she cried. “I'll tell mamma!” + +“Do, you little wretch!” returned Barbara, whose flushed face looked +lovely childlike in its indignation beside the furious phiz of the +tormenting imp. + +The monkey-creature left the room, sobbing; and Barbara turned and was +gone before Richard could thank her. + +He heard no more of the matter, and for some time had no farther trouble +with Victoria. + +Barbara had the kindest of hearts, but there was nothing _soft_ about +her She held it a sin to spoil any animal, not to say a child. For she +had a strong feeling, initiated possibly by her black nurse, that the +animals went on living after death, whence she counted it a shame not to +teach them; and held that, if a sharp cut would make child or dog behave +properly, the woman was no lover of either who would spare it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. _RICHARD AND WINGFOLD_. + +Barbara had more than once or twice heard Mr. Wingfold preach, but had +not once listened, or oven waked to the fact that she had not listened. +Unaccustomed in childhood to any special regard of the Sunday, she had +neither pleasant nor unpleasant associations with church-going; but +she liked a good many things better, and as she always did as she liked +except she saw reason to the contrary, she had hitherto gone to church +rather seldom. She might perhaps have sooner learned to go regularly but +for her mother's extraordinary behaviour there: certainly she could not +sit in the same pew with her reading her novel. Since Mr. Wingfold had +taken the part of the prophet Nathan, and rebuked her, she had indeed +ceased to go to church, but Barbara, as I have said, was as yet only now +and then drawn thitherward. + +Mr. Wingfold was almost as different from the clergyman of Richard's +idea, as was Richard's imagined God from any believable idea of God. The +two men had never yet met, for what should bring a working-man and the +clergyman of the next parish together? But one morning--he often went +for a walk in the early morning--Richard saw before him, in the middle +of a field-path, seated on a stile and stopping his way, the back of a +man in a gray suit, evidently enjoying, like himself, the hour before +sunrise. He knew somehow that he was not a working-man, but he did not +suspect him one of the obnoxious class which lives by fooling itself and +others. Wingfold heard Richard's step, looked round, knew him at once +an artisan of some sort, and saw in him signs of purpose and character +strong for his years. + +“Jolly morning!” he said. + +“It is indeed, sir!” answered Richard. + +“I like a walk in the morning better than at any other time of the day!” + said Wingfold. + +“Well, sir, I do so too, though I can't tell why. I've often tried, but +I haven't yet found out what makes the morning so different.” + +“Come!” thought the clergyman; “here's something I haven't met with too +much of!” + +Richard remarked to himself that, whoever the gentleman was, he was +certainly not stuck-up. They might have parted late the night before, +instead of meeting now for the first time! + +“Are you a married man?” asked Wingfold. + +“No, sir,” answered Richard, surprised that a stranger should put the +question. + +“If you had been,” Wingfold went on, “I should have been surer of your +seeing what I mean when I say, that to be out before sunrise is like +looking at your best friend asleep--that is, before her sun, her +thought, namely, is up. Watching her face then, you see it come to life, +grow radiant with sunrise.” + +“But,” rejoined Richard, “I have seen a person asleep whose face made it +quite evident that thought was awake! It was shining through!” + +“Shining through, certainly,” said Wingfold, “not up. I doubt indeed if +during any sleep, thought is quite in abeyance.” + +“Not when we are dead asleep, sir?--so dead that when we wake we don't +remember anything?” + +“If thought in such a case must be _proved,_ it will have to go for +non-existent. Yet, when you reflect that sometimes you discover that you +must, a few minutes before, wide awake, have done something which +you have no recollection of having done, and which, but for the fact +remaining evident to your sight, you would not believe you had done, you +must feel doubtful as to the loss of consciousness in sleep.” + +“Yes; that must give us pause!” + +“Hamlet!” said the clergyman to himself. “That's good! You may have read +from top to bottom of a page, perhaps,” he went on, “without being able +to recall a word: would you say no thought had passed through your mind +in the process?--that the words had suggested nothing as you read them?” + +“No, sir; I should be inclined to say that I forgot as fast as I read; +that, as I read, I seemed to know the thing I read, but the process of +forgetting kept pace for pace alongside the process of reading.” + +“I quite agree with you.--Now I wonder whether you will agree with me in +what I am going to suggest next!” + +“I can't tell that, sir,” said Richard--somewhat unnecessarily; but +Wingfold was pleased to find him cautious. + +“I think,” the parson continued, “that what I want in order to be able +afterward to recollect a thing, is to be not merely conscious of the +thing when it comes, but at the same moment conscious of myself. To +remember, I must be self-conscious as well as thing-conscious.” + +“There I cannot quite follow you.” + +“When I learn the meaning of a word, I know the word; but when I say +to myself, 'I know the word,' there comes a reflection of the word back +from the mirror of my mind, making a second impression, and after that I +am at least not so likely to forget it.” + +“I think I can follow you so far,” said Richard. + +“When, then,” pursued the parson, “I think about the impression that the +word makes upon me, how it is affecting me with the knowledge of itself, +then I am what I should call self-conscious of the word--conscious not +only that I know the word, but that I know the phenomena of knowing the +word--conscious of what I am as regards my knowing of the word.” + +“I understand so far, sir--at least I think I do.” + +“Then you will allow that a word with its reflection and mental impact +thus operated upon by the mind is not so likely to be forgotten as one +understood only in the first immediate way?” + +“Certainly, sir.” + +“Well, then--mind I am only suggesting; I am not proclaiming a fact, +still less laying down a law; I am not half sure enough about it for +that--so it is with our dreams. We see, or hear, and are conscious that +we do, in our dreams; our consciousness shines through our sleeping +features to the eyes that love us; but when we wake we have forgotten +everything. There was thought there, but not thought that could be +remembered. When, however, you have once said to yourself in a dream, +'I think I am dreaming;' you always, I venture to suspect, remember that +experience when you wake from it!” + +“I daresay you do, sir. But there are many dreams we never suspect to +be dreams while we are dreaming them, which yet we remember all the same +when we come awake!” + +“Yes, surely; and many people have such memories as hold every word +and every fact presented to them. But I was not meaning to discuss the +phenomena of sleep; I only meant to support my simile that to see the +world before the sun is up, is like looking on the sleeping face of +a friend. There is thought in the sleeping face of your friend, and +thought in the twilight face of nature; but the face awake with thought, +is the world awake with sunlight.” + +“There I cannot go with you, sir,” said Richard, who, for all the +impression Barbara had made upon him, had not yet thought of the world +as in any sense alive; it was to him but an aggregate of laws and +results, the great dissecting-room of creation, the happy hunting +ground of the goddess who calls herself Science, though she can claim to +understand as yet no single fact. + +“Why?” asked Wingfold. + +“Because I cannot receive the simile at all. I cannot allow expression +of thought where no thought is.” + +Here a certain look on the face of the young workman helped the parson +toward understanding the position he meant to take, “Ah!” he answered, +“I see I mistook you! I understand now! Sleep she or wake she, you will +not allow thought on the face of Nature! Am I right?” + +“That is what I would say, sir,” answered Richard. + +“We must look at that!” returned Wingfold. “That would be scanned!--You +would conceive the world as a sort of machine that goes for certain +purposes--like a clock, for instance, whose duty it is to tell the time +of the day?--Do I represent you truly?” + +“So far, sir. Only one machine may have many uses!” + +“True! A clock may do more for us than tell the time! It may tell +how fast it is going, and wake solemn thought. But if you came upon a +machine that constantly waked in you--not thoughts only, but the most +delicate and indescribable feelings--what would you say then? Would you +allow thought there?” + +“Surely not that the machine was thinking!” + +“Certainly not. But would you allow thought concerned in it? Would you +allow that thought must have preceded and occasioned its existence? +Would you allow that thought therefore must yet be interested in its +power to produce thought, and might, if it chose, minister to the +continuance or enlargement of the power it had originated?” + +“Perhaps I should be compelled to allow that much in regard to a clock +even!--Are we coming to the Paley-argument, sir?” said Richard. + +“I think not,” answered Wingfold. “My argument seems to me one of my +own. It is not drawn from design but from operation: where a thing wakes +thought and feeling, I say, must not thought and feeling be somewhere +concerned in its origin?” + +“Might not the thought and feeling come by association, as in the case +of the clock suggesting the flight of time?” + +“I think our associations can hardly be so multiform, or so delicate, as +to have a share in bringing to us half of the thoughts and feelings that +nature wakes in us. If they have such a share, they must have reference +either to a fore-existence, or to relations hidden in our being, over +which we have no control; and equally in such case are the thoughts +and feelings waked in us, not by us. I do not want to argue; I am only +suggesting that, if the world moves thought and feeling in those that +regard it, thought and feeling are somehow concerned in the world. Even +to wake old feelings, there must be a likeness to them in what wakes +them, else how could it wake them? In a word, feeling must have put +itself into the shape that awakes feeling. Then there is feeling in the +thing that bears that shape, although itself it does not feel. Therefore +I think it may be said that there is more thought, or, rather, more +expression of thought, in the face of the world when the sun is up, than +when he is not--as there is more thought in a face awake than in a face +asleep.--Ah, there is the sun! and there are things that ought never to +be talked about in their presence! To talk of some things even behind +their backs will keep them away!” + +Richard neither understood his last words, nor knew that he did not +understand them. But he did understand that it was better to watch the +sunrise than to talk of it. + +Up came the child of heaven, conquering in the truth, in the might +of essential being. It was no argument, but the presence of God that +silenced the racked heart of Job. The men stood lost in the swift +changes of his attendant colours--from red to gold, from the human to +the divine--as he ran to the horizon from beneath, and came up with a +rush, eternally silent. With a moan of delight Richard turned to his +gazing companion, when he beheld that on his face which made him turn +from him again: he had seen what was not there for human eyes! The +radiance of Wingfold's countenance, the human radiance that met the +solar shine, surpassed even that which the moon and the sky and the +sleeping earth brought out that night upon the face of Barbara! The one +was the waking, the other but the sweetly dreaming world. + +Richard refused to let any emotion, primary or reflex, influence his +opinions; they must be determined by fact and severe logical outline. +Whatever was not to him definite--that is, was not by him formally +conceivable, must not be put in the category of things to be believed; +but he had not a notion how many things he accepted unquestioning, which +were yet of this order; and not being only a thing that thought, but a +thing as well that was thought, he could not help being more influenced +by such a sight than he would have chosen to be, and the fact that he +was so influenced remained. Happily, the choice whether we shall be +influenced is not given us; happily, too, the choice whether we shall +obey an influence _is_ given us. + +Without a word, Richard lifted his hat to the stranger, and walked on, +leaving him where he stood, but taking with him a germ of new feeling, +which would enlarge and divide and so multiply. When he got to the next +stile, he looked back, and saw him seated as at first, but now reading. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. _WING FOLD AND HIS WIFE_. + +Thomas Wingfold closed his book, replaced it in his pocket, got down +from the stile, turned his face toward home, crossed field after field, +and arrived just in time to meet his wife as she came down the stair to +breakfast. + +“Have you had a nice walk, Thomas?” she asked. + +“Indeed I have!” he answered. “Almost from the first I was right out in +the open.”--His wife knew what he meant.--“Before the sun came up”, he +went on, “I had to go in, and come out at another door; but I was soon +very glad of it. I had met a fellow who, I think, will pluck his feet +out of the mud before long.” + +“Have you asked him to the rectory?” + +“No.” + +“Shall I write and ask him?” + +“No, my wife. For one thing, you can't: I don't know his name, and I +don't know what he is, or where he lives. But we shall meet again soon.” + +“Then you have made an appointment with him!” + +“No, I haven't. But there's an undertow bringing us on to each other. It +would spoil all if he thought I threw a net for him. I do mean to catch +him if I can, but I will not move till the tide brings him into my arms. +At least, that is how the thing looks to me at present. I believe enough +not to make haste. I don't want to throw salt on any bird's tail, but I +do want the birds to come hopping about me, that I may tell them what I +know!” + +As near as he could, Wingfold recounted the conversation he had had with +Richard. + +“He was a fine-looking fellow,” he said, “--not exactly a gentleman, but +not far off it; little would make him one. He looked a man that could do +things, but I did not satisfy myself as to what might be his trade. He +showed no sign of it, or made any allusion to it. But he was more at +home in the workshop of his own mind than is at all usual with fellows +of his age.” + +“It must,” said Helen, “be old Simon Armour's grandson! I have heard of +him from several quarters; and your description would just fit him. I +know somebody that could tell you about him, but I wish I know anybody +that could tell us about her--I mean Miss Wylder.” + +“I like the look of that girl!” said the parson warmly, “What makes you +think she could tell us about my new acquaintance?” + +“Only an impertinent speech of that little simian, Vixen Lestrange. +I forget what she said, but it left the impression of an acquaintance +between Bab, as she called her, and some working fellow the child could +not bear.” + +“The enmity of that child is praise. I wonder how the Master would have +treated her! He could not have taken her between his knees, and said +whosoever received her received him! A child-mask with a monkey inside +it will only serve a sentimental mother to talk platitudes about!” + +“Don't be too hard on the monkeys, Tom!” said his wife. “You don't know +what they may turn out to be, after all!” + +“Surely it is not too hard on the monkeys to call them monkeys!” + +“No; but when the monkey has already begun to be a child!” + +“There is the whole point! Has the monkey always begun to be a child +when he gets the shape of a child?--Miss Wylder is not quite so seldom +in church now, I think!” + +“I saw her there last Sunday. But I'm afraid she wasn't thinking much +about what you were saying--she sat with such a stony look in her eyes! +She did seem to come awake for one moment, though!” + +“Tell me.” + +“I could hardly take my eyes off her, my heart was so drawn to her. +There was a mingling of love and daring, almost defiance, in her look, +that seemed to say, 'If you are worth it--if you are worth it--then +through fire and water!' All at once a flash lighted up her lovely +child-face--and what do you think you were at the moment saying?--that +the flower of a plant was deeper than the root of it: that was what +roused her!” + +“And I, when I found what I had said, thought within myself what a +fool I was to let out things my congregation could not possibly +understand!--But to reach one is, in the end, to reach all!” + +“I must in honesty tell you, however,” pursued Mrs. Wingfold, “that the +next minute she looked as far off as before; nor did she shine up once +again that I saw.” + +“I will be glad, though,” said Wingfold, “because of what you tell me! +It shows there is a window in her house that looks in my direction: some +signal may one day catch her eye! That she has a character of her own, +a real one, I strongly suspect. Her mother more than interests me. She +certainly has a fine nature. How much better is a fury than a fish! You +cannot be downright angry save in virtue of the love possible to you. +The proper person, who always does and says the correct thing--well, +I think that person is almost sure to be a liar. At the same time, +the contradictions in the human individual are bewildering, even +appalling!--Now I must go to my study, and think out a thing that's +bothering me!--By the way,”--he always said that when he was going to +make her a certain kind of present; she knew what was coming--“here's +something for you--if you can read it! I had just scribbled it this +morning when the young man came up. I made it last night. I was hours +awake after we went to bed!” + +This is what he gave her:-- + + A SONG IN THE NIGHT. + + A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree, + Sang in the moonshine, merrily, + Three little songs, one, two, and three, + A song for his wife, for himself, and me. + + He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high, + Filling the moonlight that filled the sky, + “Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive! + Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!” + + He sang to himself, “What shall I do + With this life that thrills me through and through! + Glad is so glad that it turns to ache! + Out with it, song, or my heart will break!” + + He sang to me, “Man, do not fear + Though the moon goes down, and the dark is near; + Listen my song, and rest thine eyes; + Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!” + + I folded me up in the heart of his tune, + And fell asleep in the sinking moon; + I woke with the day's first golden gleam, + And lo, I had dreamed a precious dream! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. _RICHARD AND ALICE_. + +One evening Richard went to see his grandfather, and asked if he would +allow him to give Miss Wylder a lesson in horseshoeing: she wanted, he +said, to be able to shoe Miss Brown--or indeed any horse. Simon laughed +heartily at the proposal: it was too great an absurdity to admit of +serious objection! + +“Ah, you don't know Miss Wylder, grandfather!” said Richard. + +“Of course not! Never an old man knew anything about a girl! It's only +the young fellows can fathom a woman! Having girls of his own blinds +a man to the nature of them! There's going to be a law passed against +growing old! It's an unfortunate habit the world's got into somehow, and +the young fellows are going to put a stop to it for fear of losing their +wisdom!” + +As the blacksmith spoke, he went on rasping and filing at a house-door +key, fast in a vice on his bench; and his words seemed to Richard to +fall from his mouth like the raspings from his rasp. + +“Well, grandfather,” said Richard, “if Miss Wylder don't astonish you, +she'll astonish me!” + +“Have you ever seen her drive a nail, boy?” + +“Not once; but I am just as sure she will do it--and better than any +beginner you've seen yet!” + +“Well, well, lad! we'll see! we'll see! She's welcome anyhow to come and +have her try! What day shall it be?” + +“That I can't tell yet.” + +“It makes me grin to think o' them doll's hands with a great hoof in +them!” + +“They _are_ little hands--she's little herself--but they ain't doll's +hands, grandfather. You should have seen her box Miss Vixen's ears for +making a face at me! Her ears didn't take them for doll's hands, I'll be +bound! The room rang again!” + +“Bring her when you like, lad,” said Simon. + +It was moonlight, and when Richard arrived at the lodgeless gate, he saw +inside it, a few yards away, seated on a stone, the form of a woman. He +thought the first moment, as was natural, of Barbara, but the next, +he knew that this was something strange. She sat in helpless, hopeless +attitude, with her head in her hands. A strange dismay came upon him +at the sight of her; his heart fluttered in a cage of fear. He did not +believe in ghosts. If he saw one, it would but show that sometimes when +a person died there was a shadow left that was like him! There might be +millions of ghosts, and no God the more! What are we all but spectres of +the unknown? What was death but a vanishing of the unknown? What are +the dead but vanishments! Yet he shuddered at the thought that he had +actually come upon one of the dead that are still alive, of whom, once +or twice in a long century, one is met wandering vaguely about the +world, unable to find what used to make it home. He peered through the +iron bars as into a charnel-house: one such wanderer was enough to make +the whole vault of night a gaping tomb. + +Putting his key in the lock made a sharp little noise. The figure +started up, her face gleaming white in the moon, but dropped again on +her stone, unable to stand. Richard could not take his eyes off her. +While closing the gate he dared not turn his back to her. She sat +motionless as before, her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. +He stood for a moment staring and trembling, then, with an effort of the +will that approached agony, went toward her. As he drew nearer, he began +to feel as if he had once known her. He must have seen her in London +somewhere, he thought. But why was her shadow sitting there, the lonely +hostless guest of the night's caravansary? + +He went nearer. The form remained motionless. Something reminded him of +Alice Manson. + +He laid his hand on the figure. It was a woman to the touch as well as +to the eye. But not yet did she move an inch. He would have raised her +face. Then she resisted. All at once he was sure she was Alice. + +“Alice!” he cried. “Good God!--sitting in the cold night!” + +She made him no answer, sat stone-still. + +“What shall I do for you?” he said. + +“Nothing,” she answered, in a voice that might well have been that of a +spectre. “Leave me,” she added, as if with the last entreaty of despair. + +“You are in trouble, Alice!” he persisted. “Why are you so far from +home? Where's Arthur?” + +“What right have _you_ to question me?” she returned, almost fiercely. + +“None but that I am your brother's friend.” + +“Friend!” she echoed, in a faint far-away voice. + +“You forget, Alice, that I did all I could to be your friend, and you +would not let me!” + +She neither spoke nor moved. Her stillness seemed to say, “Neither will +I now.” + +“Where are you going?” he asked, after a hopeless pause. + +“Nowhere.” + +“Why did you leave London?” + +“Why should I tell you?” + +“I think you will tell me!” + +“I will not.” + +“You know I would do anything for you!” + +“I daresay!” + +“You know I would!” + +“I don't.” + +“Try me.” + +“I will not.” + +Her voice grew more and more faint and forced. Her words and it were +very unlike. + +“Don't go on like that, Alice. You're not being reasonable,” pleaded +Richard. + +“Oh, do leave me alone!” + +“I won't leave you.” + +“As you please! It's nothing to me.” + +“Alice, why do you speak to me like that? Tell me what's wrong.” + +“Everything is wrong. Everybody is wrong. The whole world is wrong.” + +Her voice was a little stronger. She raised herself, and looked him in +the face. + +“I hope not.” + +“I hope it is!” + +“Why should you?” + +“To think things were right would be too terrible! I say everything's +wrong.” + +“What's to be done, then?” sighed Richard. + +“I must get out of it all.” + +“But how?” + +“There is only one way.” + +“What is that?” + +“Everybody knows.” + +“Alice,” cried Richard, nearly in despair like herself, “are you out of +your mind?” + +“Pretty nearly.--Why shouldn't I be? There are plenty of us!” + +“Alice, if you won't tell me what is the matter with you, if you won't +let me help you, I will sit down by you till the morning.” + +“What if I drop?” + +“Then I will carry you away. The sooner you drop the better.” Her +resolution seemed to break. + +“I 'ain't eaten a mouthful to-day,” she said. + +“My poor girl! Promise me to wait till I come back. Here, put on my +coat.” + +She was past resisting more, and allowed him to button his coat about +her. + +But he was in great perplexity: where was he to get anything for her? +And how was she to live till he brought it! It was terrible to think of! +Alice with nothing to eat, and no refuge but a stone in the moonlight! +This was what her religion had done for Alice! + +“Miss Wylder's God!” he said to himself with contempt. + +“He's well enough for the wind and the stars and the moonlight! but for +human beings--for Alice--for creatures dying of hunger, what a mockery! +If he were there, it would be a sickness to talk of him! Beauty is +beauty, but for anything behind it--pooh!” + +He stood a moment hesitating. Alice swayed on her seat, and would have +fallen. He caught her--and in the act remembered a little cottage, a hut +rather, down a lane a short way off. He took her in his arms and started +for it. + +She was dreadfully thin, but a strong man cannot walk very fast carrying +a woman, however light she be, and she had half come to herself before +he reached the cottage. + +“Richard, dear Richard!” she murmured at his ear, “where are you +carrying me? Are you going to kill me, or are you taking me home with +you? Do set me down. Where's Arthur? I will let you be good to me! I +will! I can't hold out for ever!” + +She seemed to be dreaming--apparently about their meeting in +Regent-street; or perhaps she was delirious from want of food. He walked +on without attempting to answer her. Some great wrong had been done her, +and his heart sank within him; for he believed in no judgment, no final +setting right of wrongs. He knew of nothing better than that the +wronged and the wronger would cease together. Certainly, if his +creed represented fact, the best thing in existence is that it has no +essential life in it, that it cannot continue, that it must cease: the +good of living is that we must die. The hope of death is the inspiration +of Buddhism! His heart ached with pity for the girl. His help, his +tenderness expanded, and folded her in the wings of a shelter that was +not empty because his creed was false. + +“She belongs to me!” he said to himself. “The world has thrown her off: +'be it lawful I take up what's cast away!' Here is the one treasure, a +human being! the best thing in the world! I will cherish it. Poor girl! +she shall at least know one man a refuge!” + +The cottage was a wretched place, but a labourer and his family lived +in it. He knocked many times. A sleepy voice answered at last, and +presently a sleepy-eyed man half opened the door. + +“What's the deuce of a row?” he grunted. + +“Here's a young woman half dead with hunger and cold!” said Richard. +“You must take her in or she'll die!” + +“Can't you take her somewhere else?” + +“There's nowhere else near enough.--Come, come, let us in! You wouldn't +have her die on your doorstep!” + +“I don'ow as I see the sense o' bringin' her here!” answered the man +sleepily. “We ain't out o' the hunger-wood ourselves yet!--Wife! here's +a chap as says he's picked up a young 'oman a dyin' o' 'unger!--'tain't +likely, be it, i' this land o' liberty?” + +“Likely enough, Giles, where the liberty's mainly to starve!” replied a +feminine voice. “Let un bring the poor thing in. There ain't nowhere to +put her, an' there ain't nothin' to give her, but she can't lie out in +the wide world!” + +“'Ain't you got a drop o' milk?” asked Richard. + +“Milk!” echoed the woman; “it's weeks an' weeks the childer 'ain't +tasted of it! The wonder to me is that the cows let a poor man milk +'em!” + +Richard set Alice on her feet, but she could not stand alone; had he +taken his arm from round her, she would have fallen in a heap. But the +woman while she spoke had been getting a light, and now came to the door +with a candle-end. Her husband kept prudently in her shadow. + +“Poor thing! poor thing! she be far gone!” she said, when she saw her. +“Bring her in, sir. There's a chair she can sit upon. I'll get her a +drop o' tea--that'll be better'n milk! There's next to no work, and the +squire he be mad wi' Giles acause o' some rabbit or other they says he +snared--which they did say it was a hare--I don'ow: take the skin off, +an' who's to tell t'one from t'other! I do know I was right glad on't +for the childer! An' if the parson tell me my man 'ill be damned for +hare or rabbit, an' the childer starvin', I'll give him a bit o' my +mind.--'No, sir!' says I; 'God ain't none o' your sort!' says I. 'An' +p'r'aps the day may be at hand when the rich an' the poor 'ill have +a turn o' a change together! Leastways there's somethin' like it +somewheres i' the Bible,' says I. 'An' if it be i' the Bible,' says +I, 'it's likely to be true, for the Bible do take the part o' the +rich--mostly!'” + +She was a woman who liked to hear herself talk, and so spoke as one +listening to herself. Like most people, whether they talk or not, she +got her ideas second-hand; but Richard was nowise inclined to differ +with what she said about the Bible, for he knew little more and no +better about it than she. Had parson Wingfold, who did know the Bible as +few parsons know it, heard her, he would have told her that, by search +express and minute, he had satisfied himself that there was not a word +in the Bible against the poor, although a multitude of words against the +rich. The sins of the poor are not once mentioned in the Bible, the sins +of the rich very often. The rich may think this hard, but I state the +fact, and do not much care what they think. When they come to judge +themselves and others fairly, they will understand that God is no +respecter of persons, not favouring even the poor in his cause. + +Richard set Alice on the one chair, by the poor little fire the woman +was coaxing to heat the water she had put on it in a saucepan. Alice +stared at the fire, but hardly seemed to see it. The woman tried to +comfort her. Richard looked round the place: the man was in the bed +that filled one corner; a mattress in another was crowded with children; +there was no spot where she could lie down. + +“I shall be back as soon's ever I can,” he said, and left the cottage. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. _A SISTER_. + +He hurried back over the bare, moon-white road. He had seen Miss Wylder +come that morning, and hoped to reach the house, which was not very far +off, before she should have gone to bed. Of her alone in that house did +he feel he could ask the help he needed. If she had gone home, he would +try the gardener's wife! But he wanted a woman with wit as well as will. +He would help himself from the larder if he could not do better--but +there would be no brandy there! + +Many were the thoughts that, as now he walked, now ran, passed swiftly +through his mind. It was strange, he said to himself, that this girl, +of whom he had seen so little, yet in whom he felt so great an interest, +should reappear in such dire necessity! When last he saw her, she hurt +herself in frantic escape from him: now she could not escape! + +“And this is the world,” he went on, “that the priests would have you +believe ruled by the providence of an all powerful and all good being! +_My_ heart is sore for the girl--a good girl, if ever there was one, +so that I would give--yes, I think I would give my life for her! I +certainly would, rather than see her in misery! Of course I would! Any +man would, worth calling a man! When it came to the point, I should not +think twice about it! And there is _he_, sitting up there in his glory, +and looking down unmoved upon her wretchedness! I will _not_ believe in +any such God!” + +Of course he was more than right in refusing to believe in such a God! +Were such a being possible, he would not be God. If there were such a +being, and all powerful, he would be _the_ one _not_ to be worshipped. +But was Richard, therefore, to believe in no God altogether different? +May a God only be such as is not to be believed in? Is it not rather +that, to be God, the being must be so good that a man is hardly to be +found able--must I say also, or willing--to believe in him? Perhaps, if +he had been as anxious to do his duty all over, out and out, as he was +where his feelings pointed to it, Richard might have had a “What if” or +two to propose to himself. Might he not for instance have said, “What +if a certain being should even now be putting in my way the honour and +gladness of helping this woman--making me his messenger to her?” What if +his soul was too impatient to listen for the next tick of the clock +of eternity, and was left therefore to declare there was no such clock +going! Ought he not even now to have been capable of thinking that +there might be a being with a design for his creatures yet better +than _merely_ to make them happy? What if, that gained, the other must +follow! Here was a man judging the eternal, who did not even know his +own name! + +As he drew near the house, the question arose in his mind: if Miss +Wylder was gone to her room, what was he to do to find her? He did not +know where her room was! He knew that, when she went up the stair, at +the top of it she turned to the right--and he knew no more. + +The side-gate at the lodge was yet open; so was the great door of the +house. He entered softly, and going along a wide passage, arrived at the +foot of the great staircase, which ascended with the wide sweep of +half an oval, just in time to see at the top the reflection of a candle +disappearing to the right. There were many chances against its being +Barbara's, but with an almost despairing recklessness he darted up, +and turning, saw again the reflection of the candle from the wall of a +passage that crossed the corridor. He followed as swiftly and lightly +as he could, and at the corner all but overturned an elderly maid, whose +fright gave place to wrath when she saw who had endangered her. + +“I want to see Miss Wylder!” said Richard hurriedly. + +“You have no call to be in this part of the house,” returned the woman. + +“I can't stop to explain,” answered Richard. “Please tell me which is +her room.” + +“Indeed I will not.” + +“When she knows my business, she will be glad I came to her.” + +“You may find it for yourself.” + +“Will you take a message for me then?” + +“I am not Miss Wylder's maid!” she replied. “Neither is it my place to +wait on my fellow-servants.” + +She turned away, tossing her head, and rounded the corner into the +corridor. + +Richard looked down the passage. A light was burning at the other end of +it, and he saw there were not many doors in it. With a sudden resolve to +go straight ahead, he called out clear and plain-- + +“Miss Wylder!” and again, “Miss Wylder!” + +A door opened and, to his delight, out peeped Barbara's dainty little +head. She saw Richard, gave one glance in the opposite direction, and +made him a sign to come to her. He did so. She was in her dressing-gown: +it was not her candle he had followed, but its light had led him to her! + +“What is it!” she said hurriedly. “Don't speak loud: lady Ann might hear +you!” + +“There's a girl all but dying--” began Richard. + +“Go to the library,” she said. “I will come to you there. I shan't be a +minute!” + +She went in, and her door closed with scarce a sound. Then first a kind +of scare fell upon Richard: one of those doors might open, and the pale, +cold face of the formidable lady look out Gorgon-like! If it was her +candle he had followed, she could hardly have put it down when he called +Miss Wylder! He ran gliding through passage and corridor, and down the +stair, noiseless and swift as a bat. Arrived in the library, he lighted +a candle, and, lest any one should enter, pretended to be looking out +books. Within five minutes Barbara was at his side. + +“Now!” she said, and stood silent, waiting. + +There was a solemn look on her face, and none of the smile with which +she usually greeted him. Their last interview had made her miserable for +a while, and more solemn for ever. For hours the world was black about +her, and she felt as if Richard had struck her. To say there was no +God behind the loveliness of things, was to say there was no +loveliness--nothing but a pretence of loveliness! The world was a +painted thing! a toy for a doll! a phantasm! + +He told her where and in what state he had found the girl, and to what +a poor place he had been compelled to carry her, saying he feared she +would die before he could get anything for her, except Miss Wylder would +help him. + +“Brandy!” she said, thinking. “Lady Ann has some in her room. The rest I +can manage!--Wait here; I will be with you in three minutes.” + +She went, and Richard waited--without anxiety, for whatever Barbara +undertook seemed to those who knew her as good as done. + +She reappeared in her red cloak, with a basket beneath it. Richard, +wondering, would have taken the basket from her. + +“Wait till we are out of the house,” she said. “Open that bay window, +and mind you don't make a noise. They mustn't find it undone: we have to +get in that way again.” + +Richard obeyed scrupulously. It was a French window, and issue was easy. + +“What if they close the shutters?” he ventured to say. + +“They don't always. We must take our chance,” she replied. + +He thought she must mean to go as far as the lodge only. + +“You won't forget, miss, to fasten the window again?” he whispered, as +he closed it softly behind them. + +“We must always risk something!” she answered. “Come along!” + +“Please give me the basket,” said Richard. + +She gave it him; and the next moment he found her leading to the way +through the park toward the lodgeless gate. + +They had walked a good many minutes, and Barbara had not said a word. + +“How good of you, miss, to come!” ventured Richard. + +“To come!” she returned. “What else did you expect? Did you not want me +to come?” + +“I never thought of your coming! I only thought you would get the right +things for me--if you could!” + +“You don't think I would leave the poor girl to the mercy of a man +who would tell her there was nobody anywhere to help her out of her +troubles!” + +“I don't think I should have told her that; I might have told her there +was nobody to bring worse trouble upon her!” + +“What comfort would that be, when the trouble was come--and as strong as +she could bear!” + +Richard was silent a moment, then in pure self-defence answered-- + +“A man must neither take nor give the comfort of a lie!” + +“Tell me honestly then,” said Barbara, “--for I do believe you are an +honest man--tell me, are you _sure_ there is no God? Have you gone all +through the universe looking for him, and failed to find him? Is there +no possible chance that there may be a God!” + +“I do not believe there is.” + +“But are you sure there is not? Do you know it, so that you have a right +to say it?” + +Richard hesitated. + +“I cannot say,” he answered, “that I know it as I know a proposition in +Euclid, or as I know that I must not do what is wrong.” + +“Then what right have you to go and make people miserable by saying +there is no God--as if you, being an honest man, knew it, and would not +say it if you did not know it? You take away the only comfort left the +unhappy! Of course you have a right to say you don't believe it--but +only that! And I would think twice before I said even that, where all +the certainty was that it would make people miserable!” + +“I don't know anybody it would make miserable,” said Richard. + +“It would make me dead miserable,” returned Barbara. + +“I know many it would redeem from misery,” rejoined Richard. “To +believe in a cruel being ready to pounce upon them is enough to make the +strongest miserable.” + +“The cruel being that made the world, you mean?” + +“Yes--if the world was made.” + +“If one believes in any God, it must be the same God that made this +lovely night--and the gladness it would give me, if you did not take it +from me!” + +Richard was silent for a moment. + +“How can I take it from you?” he said, “if you think what I say is not +true?” + +“You make me fear lest it should be true; and then farewell to all +joy in life--not only for want of some one to love right heartily, but +because there is no refuge from the evils that are all about us. I have +no quarrel with you if you say these evils are brought upon us by an +evil being, who lives to make men miserable; there you leave room to +believe also in one fighting against him, to whom we can go for help! +The God our parson believes in he calls 'God, our saviour.' To take away +the notion of any kind of God, is to make life too dreary to live!” + +“Yours is the old doctrine of the Magians,” remarked Richard. + +“Well?” + +“I could accept it easily beside what people believe now.” + +“What do they believe?” + +“They believe in the God of the Bible, who makes pets of a few of +his creatures, and sends all the rest into eternal torment. Would you +comfort people with the good news of a God like that?” + +“Such a God is not to be believed in! Deny him all you can. But because +there cannot be an evil God, what right have you to say there cannot be +a good one? That is to reason backward! The very notion of a night like +this having no meaning in it--no God in it who intends it to look just +so, is enough to make _me_ miserable. But I will _not_ believe it! I +shall hate you if you make me believe it!” + +“The Bible says there is an evil being behind it!” + +“I don't know much about the Bible, but I don't believe it says that.” + +“Of course it _calls_ him good, but it says he does certain things which +we know to be bad.” + +“You make too much of the Bible, if it says such things. Throw it out +of the window and have done with it. But how dare you tell me there is +nobody greater than me to account for me! You make of me a creature that +was not worth being made; a mere ooze from nothing, like the scum on +the pond, there because it cannot help it. If I have no God to be my +justification, my being becomes loathsome to me. I don't know how I +came to be, where I came from, or where I am going to; and you say there +_can_ be nobody that knows; you tell me there is no help; that I must +die in the dark I came out of; that there is no love about me knowing +what it loves. Even if I found myself alive and awake and happy after I +was dead, what comfort would there be if there was no God? How should I +ever grow better?--how get rid of the wrong things in myself?--If life +has no better thing for this poor woman, be kind and let her die and +have done with it. Why keep her in such a hopeless existence as you +believe in? You can have but little regard for her surely! I beg of you +don't say _that thing_ to her, for you don't _know_ it.” + +Richard was again silent for a while; then he said-- + +“I had no intention of saying anything of the sort, but I promise +because you wish it.” + +“Thank you! thank you!” + +“I promise too,” added Richard, “that I will not say anything more of +that kind until I have thought a good deal more about it.” + +“Thank you again heartily!” said Barbara. “I am sure of one thing--that +you cannot have ground for not hoping! Is not hope all we have got? He +is the very butcher of humanity who kills its hope! It is hope we live +by!” + +“But if it be a false hope?” + +“A false hope cannot do so much harm as a false fear!” + +“The false fear is just what I oppose. The Bible tells people--” + +“There you are back to the book you don't believe in! And because you +don't believe in the book that makes people afraid, you insist there can +be no such thing as the gladness my heart cries out for! If you want to +make people happy, why don't you preach a good God instead of no God?” + +“I will think about what you say,” replied Richard. + +“Mind,” said Barbara, “I don't pretend to know anything! I only say I +have a right to hope. And for the Bible, I must have a better look at +it! A man who, being a good man, wants to comfort us poor women, whom +men knock about so, by taking from us the idea of a living God that +cares for us, cannot be so wise but that he may be wrong about a book! +Have you read it all through now, Mr. Tuke--so that you are sure it says +what you say it says?” + +“I have not,” answered Richard; “but everybody knows what it says!” + +“Well, I don't! Nobody has taken the trouble to tell me, and I haven't +read it.--But I'll just give you a little bit of my life to look at. +I was with my father and mother for a while in Sydney, and there a +terrible lie was told about me, and everybody believed it, and nobody +would speak to me. Somehow people are always ready to believe lies--even +people who would not tell lies! We had to leave Sydney in consequence, +and to this day everybody in Sydney believes me a wicked, ugly +girl!--Now I know I am not! See--I can hold my face to the stars! It was +trying to help a poor creature that nobody would do anything for, that +got the lie said of me. I thought my first business was to take care of +my neighbour, and I did it, and that's what came of it!” + +“And you believe in a God that would let that come to you for doing +what was good?” said Richard, with an indignation that exploded in all +directions. + +“Stop! stop! the thing's not over yet! The world is not done with yet! +What if there be a God who loves me, and cares as little what people +say about me, because he knows the truth, as I care about it because _I_ +know the truth!--But that is not what I wanted to say; this is it: if +such lies were told, and believed, about an innocent girl trying to do +her duty, why may not people have told lies about God, and other people +believed them? The same thing may hold with the book. Perhaps it does +not speak such lies about God, but stupid or lying people have said that +it speaks them, and other people have believed those, and said it again. +I hope with all my heart you are saying what is false when you say there +is no God; but that is not nearly so bad as saying there is a God who is +not good. I can't think anybody believing in a God like that, would have +been able to write a book about him that so many good people care to +read.” + +Richard was thoroughly silenced now. I do not mean that he was at all +convinced, but how could he find much to say with that appeal of Barbara +to her own sore experience echoing in his heart! And they were just at +the door of the cottage. He knocked, and receiving no answer, opened the +door, and they went in. + +There was light enough from the glow of a mere remnant of fire in a +corner, to see, on a stool by its side, the good woman of the house fast +asleep, with her head against the wall. Her husband was snoring in bed. +The children lay still as death on their mattress upon the floor. Alice +sat on the one chair, her head fallen back, and her face as white +as human face could be; but when they listened, they could hear her +breathing. Beside the pale, worn, vanishing girl, Barbara looked the +incarnation of concentrated life and energy. Her cheeks were flushed +with the rapid walk, and her eyes were still flashing with the thoughts +that had been rising in her, and the words that had been going from her. +For a moment she stood radiant with the tender glow of an infinite pity, +as she looked down on the death-like girl; then, with a sigh in which +trembled the very luxury of service, she put her arm under the poor +back-fallen head, and lifted it gently up. With the motion, Alice's eyes +opened, like those of certain wonderful dolls, but they did not seem to +have so much life in them. + +“Quick!” said Barbara; “give me a little brandy in the cup.” + +Richard made haste, and Barbara put the cup to Alice's lips. + +“Dear, take a little brandy; it will revive you,” she said. + +Alice came to her windows and looked, and saw the face of an angel +bending over her. She obeyed the heavenly vision, and drank what it +offered. It made her cough, and their hostess started to her feet as if +dreading censure; but a smile and a greeting from Barbara reassured her. +She thanked her for her hospitality as if Alice had been her sister, and +slipping money into her hand, coaxingly begged her to make up the fire a +little, that she might warm some soup. + +Almost at once upon her tasting the soup, a little colour began to come +in Alice's cheek. Barbara was feeding her, and a feeble smile flickered +over the thin face every time it looked up in Barbara's. Richard stood +gazing, and saw that hope in God could not much have lessened one +woman's tenderness. He had scarcely seen tenderness in his mother; and +certainly he had seen little hope. She was thoroughly kind to him, +and he knew she would have died for her husband; but he had seen no +sweetness in their intercourse, neither could remember any sweetness to +himself. The hot spring of his aunt's love to him was no geyser, and he +never knew in this world how hot it was. Hence was it to Richard more +than a gracious sight, it was a revelation to him, as he watched +the electric play of the love that passed from the strong, tender, +child-like girl to the delicate, weary, starved creature to whom she was +ministering. + +At length Barbara thought it better she should have no more food for the +present, when naturally the question arose, what was to be done next. +The saviours went out into the night to have a free talk, and a little +fresh air--sorely wanted in the cottage. + +Richard then told Barbara that, if she did not disapprove, he would take +Alice to his grandfather: he was certain he would receive her cordially, +and both he and Jessie would do what they could for her. But he did not +know of any vehicle he could get to carry her, except his grandfather's +pony-cart, and that was four miles away! + +“All right!” said Barbara. “I will stay with her, in and out, till you +come.” + +“But how will you get home after?” + +“As I came, of course. Don't trouble yourself about me; I can look after +myself.” + +“But if they should have fastened the library-window?” + +“Then I will take refuge with mother Night. There will be room enough in +the park. Perhaps I may go to roost in that beech-tree. Don't you think +about me. I shall come to no harm. Go at once and fetch the pony-cart.” + +Richard set off running, and came to his grandfather's while it was yet +unreviving night; but he had little difficulty in rousing the old man. +He told him all he knew about Alice, as well as the plight in which he +had found her. Simon looked grave when he heard how his daughter had +come between Richard and his friends. He hurried on his clothes, put +the pony to, and got into the cart: he would himself fetch the girl! In +another moment they were spinning along the gray road. + +When they reached the hut, there was Barbara standing sentry near the +door. She went and talked to Simon. Richard got down and went in. He +found Alice wide awake, staring into the fire, with a look that brought +a great rush of pity into his heart afresh. Remembering how the girl +had shrunk from him before, he feared himself unfit to help, and knew +himself unable to comfort her. For the first time he vaguely felt that +there might be troubles needing a hand which neither man nor woman could +hold out. Their kind hostess had crept into bed beside her husband, +and was snoring as loud as he. Without a word he wrapped Alice in the +blanket he had brought, and taking her once more in his arms, carried +her to the cart. Leaning down from his perch, the sturdy old man +received her in his, placed her comfortably beside him, put his arm +round her, and with a nod to Barbara, and never a word to his grandson, +drove away. Richard knew his rugged goodness too well to mind how he +treated him, and was confident in him for Alice, as one to do not less +but more than he promised. He was thus free to walk home with Barbara, +glad at heart to know Alice in harbour, but a little anxious until Miss +Wylder should be safe shut in her chamber. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. _BARBARA AND LADY ANN._ + +As they went, neither said much. Both seemed to avoid the subject of +their conversation as they came. They talked of poetry and fiction, and +did not differ. Though Barbara there also had precious insights, happily +she had no opinions. + +When they reached a certain point, Richard drew back, and, from a coign +of vantage, saw Barbara try the study-window and fail. He then followed +her as she went round to the door, and, still covertly, saw her ring the +bell. The door was opened with what seemed to him a portentous celerity, +and she disappeared. He turned away into the park, and wandered about, +revolving many things, till by slow gradations the sky's gray idea +unfolded to a brilliant conviction, and, lo, there was the morning, +not to be controverted! But he took care to let the house not only +come awake, but come to its senses, before he sought admission. When +it seemed well astir, he rang the bell; and when the door, after some +delay, was opened, he went straight to the library, and was fairly at +work by five o'clock. + +He saw nothing of Barbara all day, or indeed of any of the family except +Vixen, who looked in, made a face at him, and went away, leaving the +door open. At eight o'clock he had his breakfast, and at nine he was +again in the library; so that by lunch-time he had been seven of his +eight hours at work, and by half-past two found himself free to go to +his grandfather's and inquire after Alice. + +On his way to the road through the park, he met Arthur Lestrange. +Richard touched his hat as was his wont, and would have passed, but, +with no friendly expression on his countenance, Arthur stopped. + +“Where are you going, Tuke?” he said. + +“I am going to my grandfather's, sir,” answered Richard. + +“Excuse me, but your day's work is not over by many hours yet.” + +Richard found his temper growing troublesome, but tried hard to keep it +in hand. + +“If you remember, sir,” he said, “our agreement mentioned no hour for +beginning or leaving off work.” + +“That is true, but you undertook to give me eight hours of your day!” + +“Yes, sir. I was at work by five o'clock this morning, and have given +you more than eight hours.” + +“Hm!” said Arthur. + +“I am quite as anxious,” pursued Richard, “to fulfill my engagement, as +you can be to have it fulfilled.” + +Arthur said nothing. + +“Ask Thomas, who let me in this morning,” resumed Richard, “whether I +was not at work in the library by five o'clock.” + +It went a good deal against the grain with Richard to appeal to any +witness for corroboration: he was proud of being a man of his word; +but although not greatly anxious to keep his temporary position, he +was anxious the compact should not be broken through anything he did or +said. + +“Let you in?” exclaimed Arthur; “--let you in before five o'clock in the +morning? Then you were out all night!” + +“I was.” + +“That cannot be permitted.” + +“I am surely right in believing that, when my work is over, I am my own +master! I had something to do that must be done. My grandfather knows +all I was about!” + +“Oh, yes, I remember! old Simon Armour, the blacksmith!” returned +Arthur. “But,” he went on, plainly softening a little, “you ought not to +work for him while you are in my employment.” + +“I know that, sir; and if I wanted, my grandfather would not let me. +While my work is yours, it is all yours, sir.” + +With that he turned, and left Arthur where he stood a little relieved, +though now annoyed as well that a man in his employment should not +have waited to be dismissed. Hastening to the smithy, he found his +grandfather putting off his apron to go home for a cup of tea. + +“Oh, there you are!” he said. “I thought we should be catching sight of +you before long!” + +“How's Alice, grandfather? You might be sure I should want to know!” + +“She's been asleep all day, the best thing for her!” + +“I hope, grandfather,” said Richard, for Simon's tone troubled him a +little, “you are not vexed with me! I assure you I had nothing to do +with her coming down here--that I know of. You would not have had me +leave her sitting there, out on that stone in the moonlight, all night +long, a ghost before her time without a grave to go to? She would have +been dead before the morning! She must have been! I am certain _you_ +would not have left her there!” + +“God forbid, lad! If you thought me out of temper with you, it was a +mistake. I confess the thing does bother me, but I'm not blaming _you_. +You acted like a Christian.” + +Richard hardly relished the mode of his grandfather's approbation. A +man ought to do the right thing because he was a man, not because he +was something else than a man! He had yet to learn that a man and a +Christian are precisely and entirely the same thing; that a being who is +not a Christian is not a man. I perfectly know how absurd this must seem +to many, but such do not see what I see. No one, however strong he may +feel his obligations, will ever be man enough to fulfill them except he +be a Christian--that is, one who, like Christ, cares first for the will +of the Father. One who thinks he can meet his obligations now, can have +no idea what is required of him in virtue of his being what he is--no +idea of what his own nature requires of him. So much is required that +nothing more could be required. Let him ask himself whether he is +doing what he requires of himself. If he answer, “I can do it without +Christianity anyway,” I reply, “Do it; try to do it, and I know where +the honest endeavour will bring you. Don't try to do it, and you are not +man enough to be worth reasoning with.” + +Simon and his grandson had not yet turned the corner, when Richard heard +a snort he knew: there, sure enough, stood Miss Brown, hitched to the +garden-paling, peaceable but impatient. + +“Miss Wylder here!” said Richard. + +“Yes, lad! She's been here an hour and more. Jessie came and told me, +but I knew it: I heard the mare, and knew the sound of my own shoes on +her!--I doubt if she'll stand it much longer though!” he added, as she +pawed the road. “Well, she's a fine creature!” + +“Yes, she's a good mare!” + +“I don't mean the mare! I mean the mistress!” + +“Miss Wylder is just noble!” said Richard. “But I'm afraid she got into +trouble last night!” + +“It don't sound much like it!” returned the old man, as Barbara's +musical, bird-like laugh came from the cottage. “She ain't breaking her +heart!--Alice, as you call her, must be doing well, or missie wouldn't +be laughing like that!” + +As they entered, Barbara came gliding down the perpendicular stair in +front of them, her face yet radiant with the shadow of the laugh they +had heard. + +“Good morning, Mr. Armour!” she said. “--I did not expect to see you so +soon again, Mr. Tuke. Will you put me up!” + +Richard released Miss Brown, got her into position, and gave his hand to +Barbara's foot, as he had seen Mr. Lestrange do. But lifting, he nearly +threw her over Miss Brown's back. She burst into her lovely laugh, +clutched at a pommel, and held fast. + +“I'm not quite ready to go to heaven all at once!” she said. + +“I thought you were!” answered Richard. “But indeed I beg your pardon! I +might have known how light you must be!” + +“I am very heavy for my size!” + +“May I walk a little way alongside of you, miss?” + +“You have a right; I have offered you my company more than once,” + answered Barbara. + +They walked a little way in silence. + +“Why is there no way to the heaven you believe in, but the terrible gate +of death?” asked Richard at length. “If a God of love, as you say your +God is, made the world, and could not--for want of room, I suppose--let +his creatures live on in it, he would surely have thought of some better +way out of it than such a ghastly one!” + +Perhaps the most surprising thing about Barbara was her readiness. Very +seldom had one to wait for her answer. + +“This morning,” she said, “for the first time with me on her back at +least, Miss Brown refused a jump--and I grant the place _looked_ ugly! +But I gave her a little sharp persuasion, and she took it beautifully, +coming away as proud of herself as possible.--If there be a God, he must +know as much better than you and I, as I know better than Miss Brown. +One who never did anything we couldn't understand, couldn't be God. How +else could he make things?” + +“Yes, if they are made!” + +“If I were you, I would be quite sure first, before I said they were +not. You won't assert anything you are not sure of; don't deny anything +either. Good-bye.--Go, Miss Brown!” + +She was more peremptory than usual, but he liked it--rather. He felt she +had some right to speak to him so: positive as he had hitherto been, he +was not really sure of anything! + +The fact was, Barbara had been irritated that morning, and had got over +the irritation, but not quite over the excitement of it. She thought +Miss Brown should never again set hoof within the gates of Mortgrange. + +After breakfast, lady Ann had sent for her to her dressing-room, and +Barbara had gone, prepared to hear of something to her disadvantage. The +same woman who had been so uncivil to Richard, had watched and seen them +go out together. She fastened the library window behind them, and went +and told lady Ann, who requested her to mind her own business. + +When Barbara rang the bell, not caring much--for a night in the park was +of little consequence to her--the door was immediately opened, but only +a little way, by some one without a light, whose face or even person +she could not distinguish, for the door was quite in shadow. It closed +again, and she was left darkling, to find her way to her room as best +she might. She stood for a moment. + +“Who is it?” she said. + +No one answered. She heard neither footstep nor sound of garments. +Carefully feeling her way, she got to the foot of the great stair, and +in another minute was in her room. + +When Barbara entered lady Ann's dressing-room, she greeted her with less +than her usual frigidity. + +“Good morning, my love! You were late last night!” she said. + +“I thought I was rather early,” answered Barbara, laughing. + +“May I ask where you were?” said her ladyship, with her habitual +composure. + +“About a mile and a half from here, at that little cottage in +Burrow-lane.” + +“How did you come to be there--and for so long? You were hours away!” + +Even lady Ann could not prevent a little surprise in her tone as she +said the words. + +“Mr. Tuke came and told me----” + +“I beg your pardon, but do I know Mr. Tuke?” + +“The bookbinder, at work in the library.” + +“Wouldn't your mother be rather astonished at your having secrets with a +working-man?” + +“Secrets, lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara. “Your ladyship forgets herself!” + +Lady Ann looked up with a languid stare in the fresh young face, rosy +with anger. + +“Was I not in the act,” pursued the girl, “of telling you all about it? +You dare accuse me of such a thing! I only wish you would carry that +tale of me to my mother!” + +“I am not accustomed to be addressed in this style, Barbara!” drawled +lady Ann, without either raising or quickening her voice. + +“Then it is time you began, if you are accustomed to speak to girls as +you have just spoken to me! I am not accustomed to be told that I have +a secret with any man--or woman either! I don't know which I should like +worse! I have no secrets. I hate them.” + +“Compose yourself, my child. You need not be afraid of _me_!” said lady +Ann. “I am not your enemy.” + +She thought Barbara's anger came from fear, for she regarded herself +as a formidable person. But for victory she rested mainly on her +imperturbability. + +“Look me in the face, lady Ann, and tell yourself whether I am afraid +of you!” answered Barbara, the very soul of indignation flashing in her +eyes. “I fear no enemy.” + +Lady Ann found she had a new sort of creature to deal with. + +“That I am your friend, you will not doubt when I tell you it was I who +let you in last night! I did not wish your absence or the hour of +your return to be known. My visitors must not be remarked upon by my +servants!” + +“Then why did you not speak to me?” + +“I wished to give you a lesson.” + +“You thought to frighten _me_, as if I were a doughy, half-baked English +girl! Allow me to ask how you were aware I was out.” + +Lady Ann was not ready with her answer. She wanted to establish a +protective claim on the girl--to have a secret with, and so a hold upon +her. + +“If the servants do not know,” Barbara went on, “would you mind saying +how your ladyship came to know? Have the servants up, and I will tell +the whole thing before them all--and prove what I say too.” + +“Calm yourself, Miss Wylder. You will scarcely do yourself justice in +English society, if you give way to such temper. As you wish the whole +house to know what you were about, pray begin with me, and explain the +thing to me.” + +“Mr. Tuke told me he had found a young woman almost dead with hunger and +cold by the way-side, and carried her to a cottage. I came to you, +as you well remember, and begged a little brandy. Then I went to the +larder, and got some soup. She would certainly have been dead before the +morning, if we had not taken them to her.” + +“Why did you not tell me what you wanted the brandy for?” + +“Because you would have tried to prevent me from going.” + +“Of course I should have had the poor creature attended to!--I confess I +should have sent a more suitable person.” + +“I thought myself the most suitable person in the house.” + +“Why?” + +“Because the thing came to me to get done, and I had to go; and because +I knew I should be kinder to her than any one you could send. I know too +well what servants are, to trust them with the poor!” + +“You may be far too kind to such people!” + +“Yes, if one hasn't common sense. But this girl you couldn't be too kind +to.” + +“It is just as I feared: she has taken you in quite! Those tramps are +all the same!” + +“The same as other people--yes; that is, as different from each other as +your ladyship and I.” + +Lady Ann found Barbara too much for her, and changed her attack. + +“But how came you to be so long? As you have just said, Burrow-lane +can't be more than a mile and a half from here!” + +“We could not leave her at the cottage; it was not a fit place for her. +Mr. Tuke had to go to his grandfather's--four miles--and I had to stay +with her till he came back. Old Simon came himself in his spring-cart, +and took her away.” + +“Was there no woman at the cottage?” + +“Yes, but worn out with work and children. Her night's rest was of more +consequence to her than ten nights' waking would be to me.” + +“Thank you, Barbara! I was certain I should not prove mistaken in you! +But I hope such a necessity will not often occur.” + +“I hope not; but when it does, I hope I may be at hand.” + +“I was certain it was some mission of mercy that had led you into the +danger. A girl in your position must beware of being peculiar, even in +goodness. There are more important things in the world than a little +suffering!” + +“Yes; your duty to your neighbour is more important.” + +“Not than your duty to yourself, Barbara!” said lady Ann, in such a +gently severe tone of righteous reproof, that Barbara's furnace of a +heart made the little pot that held her temper nearly boil over. + +“Lady Ann,” she said, unconsciously drawing herself up to her full +little height, “I am sorry I gave you the trouble of sitting up to open +the door for me. _That_ at least shall not happen again. Good morning.” + +“There is nothing to be annoyed at, Barbara. I am quite pleased with +what you have told me. I say only it was unwise of you not to let me +know.” + +“It may not have been wise for my own sake, but it was for the woman's.” + +“There is no occasion to say more about the woman; I am quite satisfied +with you, Barbara!” said lady Ann, looking up with an icy smile, her +last Parthian arrow. + +“But I am not satisfied with you, lady Ann,” rejoined Barbara. “I have +submitted to be catechized because the thing took place while I was your +guest; but if such a thing were to happen again, I should do just the +same; therefore I have no right, understanding perfectly how much it +would displease you, to remain your guest. I ought, perhaps, to have +gone home instead of returning to you, but I thought that would be +uncivil, and look as if I were ashamed. My mother would never have +treated me as you have done! You may think her a strange woman, but her +heart is as big as her head--much bigger when it is full!” + +It was not right of Barbara to get so angry, and answer lady Ann so +petulantly, for she knew her pretty well by this time, and yet was often +her guest. That it was impossible for such a girl to feel respect +for such a woman, if it accounts for her bearing to her, condemns the +familiarity that gave occasion to that bearing. At the same time, but +for lady Ann's superiority in age, Barbara would have spoken her mind +with yet greater freedom. Her rank made no halo about her in Barbara's +eyes. + +Lady Ann took no more trouble to appease her: the foolish girl would, +she judged, be ashamed of herself soon, and accept the favour she knew +to be undeserved! Lady Ann understood Barbara no more than lady Ann +understood the real woman underlying lady Ann. She was not afraid of +losing Barbara, for she believed her parents could not but be strongly +in favour of an alliance with her family. She knew nothing of the +personal opposition between Mr. and Mrs. Wylder: she never opposed sir +Wilton except it was worth her while to do so; and sir Wilton never +opposed her at all--openly. It gave lady Ann no more pleasure to +go against her husband, than to comply with his wishes; and she had +anything but an adequate notion of the pleasure it gave sir Wilton to +see any desire of hers frustrated. + +Barbara went to the stable, where man and boy had always his service in +his right hand ready for her--got Miss Brown saddled, and was away from +Mortgrange before Richard, early as he had begun, was half-way through +his morning's work. + +She went to see Alice almost every day from that afternoon; and as no +one could resist Barbara, Alice's reserve, buttressed and bastioned +as it was with pain, soon began to yield before the live sympathy that +assailed it. They became fast friends. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. _ALICE AND BARBARA_. + +It was weeks before Alice was able to leave her bed: she had been +utterly exhausted. + +On a lovely summer morning she woke to a sense of returning health. She +had been lying like a waste shore, at low spring-tide, covered with dry +seaweeds, withered jelly-fishes, and a multitudinous life that gasped +for the ocean: at last, at last, the cool, washing throb of the great +sea of bliss, whose fountain is the heart of God, had stolen upon her +consciousness, and she knew that she lived. She lay in a neat little +curtained bed, in a room with a sloping roof on both sides, covered, +not with tiles or slates, but with warm thatch, thick and sound. Ivy was +creeping through the chinks of the ill-fitting window-frame; but through +the little dormer window itself the sun shone freely, and made shadows +of shivering ivy-leaves upon the deal floor. It was a very humble room, +and Alice had been used to much better furniture--but neither to room +nor furniture so clean. There was a wholesomeness and purity everywhere +about her, very welcome to the lady-eyes with which Alice was born; +for it is God that makes ladies, not stupid society and its mawkish +distinctions. One brief moment she felt as if she had gained the haven +of her rest, for she lay at peace, and nothing gnawed. But suddenly a +pang shot through her heart, and she knew that some harassing thought +was at hand: pain was her portion, and had but to define itself to grow +sharp. She rose on her elbow to receive the enemy. He came; she fell +back with a fainting heart and a writhing will. She had left love and +misery behind her to seek help, and she had not found it! she had but +lost sight of those for whom she sought the help! She could not tell how +long it was since she had seen her mother and Arthur: she lay covered +with kindness by people she had never before seen; and how they were +faring, she could but conjecture, and conjecture had in it no comfort! + +Alice had little education beyond what life had given her; but life is +the truest of all teachers, however little the results of her teaching +may be valued by school-enthusiasts. She did not put the letter H in its +place except occasionally, but she knew how to send a selfish thought +back to its place. She did not know one creed from another, but she +loved what she saw to be good. She knew nothing of the Norman conquest, +but she knew much of self-conquest. She could make her breakfast off dry +bread, that her mother might have hot coffee and the best of butter. She +wore very shabby frocks, but she would not put bad work into the seams +of a rich lady's dress. She stooped as she walked, and there was a lack +of accord between her big beautiful eyes and the way she put her feet +down; but it was the same thing that made her eyes so large, and her +feet so heavy; and if she could not trip lightly along the street, she +could lay very tender hands on her mother's head when it ached with +drinking. She had suffered much at the hands of great ladies, yet she +had but to see Barbara to love her. + +As she lay with her heart warming in that sunshine in which every heart +must one day flash like the truest of diamonds, she heard the sound of +a horse's hoofs on the road. Her angel came to Alice with no flapping of +great wings, or lighting of soft-poised heavenly feet on wooden floor, +but with the sounds of ringing iron shoes and snorting breath, to be +followed by a girl's feet on the stair, whose herald was the smell, +now of rosiest roses, now of whitest lilies, in the chamber of her sad +sister. Well might Alice have sung, “How beautiful are the feet!” At the +music of those mounting feet, death and fear slunk from the room, and +Alice knew there was salvation in the world. What evil _can_ there be +for which there is _no_ help in another honest human soul! What sorrow +is there from which a man may not be some covert, some shadow! Alas for +the true soul which cannot itself save, when it has no notion where help +is to be found! + +“Well, how are you to-day, little one?” said Barbara, sitting down on +the edge of the bed. + +Alice was older and taller than Barbara, but Barbara never thought about +height or age: strong herself, she took the maternal relation to all +weakness. + +“Ever so much better, miss!” answered Alice. + +“Now, none of that!” returned the little lady, “or I walk out of the +room! My name is Barbara, and we are friends--except you think it cheeky +of me to call you Alice!” + +Alice stretched out her thin arms, folded them gently around Barbara, +and burst into weeping, which was not all bitter. + +“Will you let me tell you everything?” she cried. + +“What am I here for?” returned Barbara, deep in her embrace. “Only +don't think I'm asking you to tell me anything. Tell me whatever you +like--whatever will help me to know you--not a thing more.” + +Alice lay silent for an instant, then said-- + +“I wish you would ask me some question! I don't know how to begin!” + +Without a moment's hesitation, Barbara said in response-- + +“What do you do all day in London?” + +“Sew, sew, sit and sew, from morning to night,” answered Alice. “No +sooner one thing out of your hands, than another in them, so that you +never feel, for all you do, that you've done anything! The world is just +as greedy of your work as before. I sometimes wish,” she went on, with +a laugh that had a touch of real merriment in it, “that ladies were +made with hair like a cat, I am so tired of the everlasting bodice and +skirt!--Only what would become of us then! It would only be more hunger +for less weariness!--It's a downright dreary life, miss!” + +“Have a care!” said Barbara solemnly, and Alice laughed. + +“You see,” she said, and paused a moment as if trying to say _Barbara_, +“I'm used to think of ladies as if they were a different creation from +us, and it seems rude to call you--_Barbara_!” + +She spoke the name with such a lingering sweetness as made its owner +thrill with a new pleasure. + +“It seems,” she went on, “like presuming to--to--to stroke an angel's +feathers!” + +“And much I'd give for the angel,” cried Barbara, “that wouldn't like +having his feathers stroked by a girl like you! He might fly for me, and +go--where he'd have them singed!” + +“Then I _will_ call you Barbara; and I will answer _any_ question you +like to put to me!” + +“And your mother, I daresay, is rather trying when you come home?” + said Barbara, resuming her examination, and speaking from experience. +“Mothers are--a good deal!” + +“Well, you see, miss--Barbara, my mother wasn't used to a hard life like +us, and Artie--that's my brother--and I have to do our best to keep her +from feeling it; but we don't succeed very well--not as we should like +to, that is. Neither of us gets much for our day's work, and we can't do +for her as we would. Poor mamma likes to have things nice; and now that +the money she used to have is gone--I don't know how it went: she had it +in some bank, and somebody speculated with it, I suppose!--anyhow, it's +gone, and the thing can't be done. Artie grows thinner and thinner, and +it's no use! Oh, miss, I know I shall lose him! and when I think of it, +the whole world seems to die and leave me in a brick-field!” + +She wept a moment, very quietly, but very bitterly. + +“I know he does his very best,” she resumed, “but she won't see it! She +thinks he might do more for her! and I'm sure he's dying!” + +“Send him to me,” said Barbara; “I'll make him well for you.” + +“I wish I could, miss--I mean _Barbara!_--Oh, ain't there a lot of nice +things that can't ever be done!” + +“Does your mother do nothing to help?” + +“She don't know how; she 'ain't learned anything like us. She was +brought up a lady. I remember her saying once she ought to 'a' been a +real lady, a lady they say _my lady_ to!” + +“Indeed! How was it then that she is not?” + +“I don't know. There are things we don't dare ask mamma about. If she +had been proud of them, she would have told us without asking.” + +“What was your father, Alice?” + +The girl hesitated. + +“He was a baronet, Barbara.--But perhaps you would rather I said _miss_ +again!” + +“Don't be foolish, child!” Barbara returned peremptorily. + +“I suppose my mother meant that he promised to marry her, but never did. +They say gentlemen think no harm of making such promises--without even +meaning to keep them!--I don't know!--I've got no time to think about +such things,--only--” + +“Only you're forced!” supplemented Barbara. “I've been forced to think +about them too--just once. They're not nice to think about! but so +long as there's snakes, it's better to know the sort of grass they lie +in!--Did he take your mother's money and spend it?” + +“Oh, no, not that! He was a gentleman, a baronet, you know, and they +don't do such things!” + +“Don't they!” said Barbara. “I don't know what things _gentlemen_ don't +do!--But what happened to the money? There may be some way of getting it +back!” + +“There's no hope of that! I'll tell you how I think it was: my father +didn't care to marry my mother, for he wanted a great lady; so he said +good-bye to her, and she didn't mind, for he was a selfish man, she +said. So she took the money, for of course she had to bring us up, and +couldn't do it without--and what they call invested it. That means, you +know, that somebody took charge of it. So it's all gone, and she gets no +interest on it, and the shops won't trust us a ha'penny more. We can't +always pay down for the kind of thing she likes, and must take what we +can pay for, or go without; and she thinks we might do better for her if +we would, and we don't know how. The other day--I don't like to tell +it of her, even to you, Barbara, but I'm afraid she had been taking too +much, for she went to Mrs. Harman and took me away, and said I could get +much better wages, and she didn't give me half what my work was worth. +I cried, for I couldn't help it, I was that weak and broken-like, for I +had had no breakfast that morning--at least not to speak of, and I got +up to go, for I couldn't say a word, and wanted my mother out of the +place. But Mrs. Harman--she _is_ a kind woman!--she interfered, and said +my mother had no right to take me away, and I must finish my month. So +I sat down again, and my mother was forced to go. But when she was gone, +Mrs. Harman said to me, 'The best thing after all,' says she, 'that you +can do, Ally, is to let your mother have her way. You just stop at home +till she gets you a place where they'll pay you better than I do! She'll +find out the sooner that there isn't a better place to be had, for it's +a slack time now, and everybody has too many hands! When her pride's +come down a bit, you come and see whether I'm able to take you on +again.' Now wasn't that good of her?” + +“M-m-m!” said Barbara. “It was a slack time!--So you went home to your +mother?” + +“Yes--and it was just as Mrs. Harman said: there wasn't a stitch wanted! +I went from place to place, asking--I nearly killed myself walking +about: walking's harder for one not used to it than sitting ever so +long! So I went back to Mrs. Harman, and told her. She said she couldn't +have me just then, but she'd keep her eye on me. I went home nearly out +of my mind. Artie was growing worse and worse, and I had nothing to do. +It's a mercy it was warm weather; for when you haven't much to eat, the +cold is worse than the heat. Then in summer you can walk on the shady +side, but in winter there ain't no sunny side. At last, one night as I +lay awake, I made up my mind I would go and see whether my father was +as hard-hearted as people said. Perhaps he would help us over a week or +two; and if I hadn't got work by that time, we should at least be abler +to bear the hunger! So the next day, without a word to mother or Artie, +I set out and came down here.” + +“And you didn't see sir Wilton?” + +“La, miss! who told you? Did I let out the name?” + +“No, you didn't; but, though there are a good many baronets, they don't +exactly crowd a neighbourhood! What did he say to you?” + +“I 'ain't seen him yet, miss,--Barbara, I mean! I went up to the lodge, +and the woman looked me all over, curious like, from head to foot; and +then she said sir Wilton wasn't at home, nor likely to be.” + +“What a lie!” exclaimed Barbara. + +“You know him then, Barbara?” + +“Yes; but never mind. I must ask all my questions first, and then it +will be your turn. What did you do next?” + +“I went away, but I don't know what I did. How I came to be sitting +on that stone inside that gate, I can't tell. I think I must have gone +searching for a place to die in. Then Richard came. I tried hard to keep +him from knowing me, but I couldn't.” + +“You knew that Richard was there?” + +“Where, miss?” + +“At the baronet's place--Mortgrange.” + +“Lord, miss! Then they've acknowledged him!” + +“I don't know what you mean by that. He's there mending their books.” + +“Then I oughtn't to have spoken. But it don't matter--to you, Barbara! +No; I knew nothing about him being there, or anywhere else, for I'd lost +sight of him. It was a mere chance he found me. I didn't know him till +he spoke to me. I heard his step, but I didn't look up. When I saw who +it was, I tried to make him leave me--indeed I did, but he would take +me! He carried me all the way to the cottage where you found me.” + +“Why didn't you want him to know you? What have you against him?” + +“Not a thing, miss! He would be a brother to me if I would let him. It's +a strange story, and I'm not quite sure if I ought to tell it.” + +“Are you bound in any way not to tell it?” + +“No. _She_ didn't tell me about it.” + +“You mean your mother?” + +“No; I mean his mother.” + +“I am getting bewildered!” said Barbara. + +“No wonder, miss! You'll be more bewildered yet when I tell you all!” + She was silent. Barbara saw she was feeling faint. + +“What a brute I am to make you talk!” she cried, and ran to fetch her a +cup of milk, which she made her drink slowly. + +“I must tell you _everything_!” said Alice, after lying a moment or two +silent. + +“You shall to-morrow,” said Barbara. + +“No; I must now, please! I must tell you about Richard!” + +“Have you known him a long time?” + +“I call him Richard,” said Alice, “because my brother does. They were at +school together. But it is only of late--not a year ago, that I began to +know him. He came to see Arthur once, and then I went with Arthur to +see him and his people. But his mother behaved very strangely to me, and +asked me a great many questions that I thought she had no business to +ask me. Before that, I had noticed that she kept looking from Arthur to +Richard, and from Richard to Arthur, in the oddest way; I couldn't make +it out. Then she asked me to go to her bedroom with her, and there she +told me. She was very rough to me, I thought, but I must say the tears +were in her own eyes! She said she could _not_ have Richard keeping +company with us, for she knew what my mother was, and who my father was, +and we were not respectable people, and it would never do. If she heard +of Richard going to our house once again, she would have to do something +we shouldn't like. Then she cried quite, and said she was sorry to hurt +me, for I seemed a good girl, and it wasn't my fault, but she couldn't +help it; the thing would be a mischief. And there she stopped as if she +had said too much already. You may be sure I thought myself ill-used, +and Arthur worse; for we both liked Richard, though my mother didn't +think him at all our equal, or fit to be a companion to Arthur; for +Arthur was a clerk, while Richard worked with his hands. Arthur said +he worked with his hands too, and turned out far poorer work than +Richard--stupid figures instead of beautiful books; and I said I worked +with my needle quite as hard as Richard with his tools; but it had no +effect on my mother: her ways of looking at things are not the same +as ours, because she was born a lady. Why don't a lady _have_ ladies, +Barbara?” + +“Never you mind, Alice! Every good woman will be a lady one day--I am +sure of that! It was cruel to treat you so! How anybody belonging to +Richard could do it, I can't think; he's so gentle and good himself!” + +“He's the kindest and best of--of men, and I love him,” said Alice +earnestly. “But I must tell you, Barbara--I must make you understand +that I have a right to love him. When I told poor Arthur, as we went +home that night, that he wasn't to see any more of Richard, he could not +help crying. I saw it, though he tried to hide it. Of course I didn't +let him know I saw him cry. Men are ashamed of crying. I ain't a bit. +For Richard was the only schoolfellow ever was a friend to Artie. He +once fought a big fellow that used to torment him! By the time we got +home, I was boiling over with rage, and told mamma all about it. Angry +as I was, her anger frightened mine out of me. 'The insolent woman!' she +cried. 'But I'll soon have a rod in pickle for her! I'll have my revenge +of her--that you shall soon see! My children weren't good enough for her +tradesman-fellow, weren't they! She said that, did she? She ain't the +only one has got eyes in her head! Didn't you see me look at him as +sharp as she did at you? If ever face told tale without meaning to tell +it, that's the face of the young man you call Richard! He's a Lestrange, +as sure's there's a God in heaven! He's got the mark as plain as sir +Wilton himself!--not a feature the same, I grant, but Lestrange is writ +in every one of them! I'll take my oath who was _his_ father!--And there +she goes as mim and as prim--!' 'No, mamma,' I said, 'that she does not. +She looks as fierce as a lioness!' I said. 'What's her name?' asked my +mother. 'Tuke,' I answered. 'Was there ever such a name!' she cried. +'It's fitter for a dog than a human being! But it's good enough for her +anyway. What was her maiden name? Who was she? There's the point!' 'But +if what you suspect be true, mamma,' I said, 'then she had good reason +for wishing us parted!' 'She ought to have come to me about it!' said my +mother. 'She ought to have left it to me to say what should be done! I'm +not married to a dirty tradesman!' I'm not telling you exactly what she +said, miss, because when she loses her temper, poor mamma don't always +speak quite like a lady, though of course she _is_ one, all the same! I +said no more, but I thought how kindly Richard always looked at me, and +my heart grew big inside me to think that Artie and I had him for our +own brother. Nobody could touch that! He had notions I didn't like--for, +do you know, Barbara, he believes we just go out like a candle that can +never again be lighted any more. He thinks there's no life after this +one! He can't have loved anybody much, I fear, to be able to think that! +You don't agree with him, I'm certain, miss! But I thought, if he was my +brother, I might be able to help change his mind about it. I thought +I would be so good to him that he wouldn't like me to die for ever and +ever, and would come to see things differently. I had no friend, not +one, you see, miss--Barbara, I mean--except Arthur, and he never has +much to say about anything, though he's as true as steel; and I thought +it would be bliss to have a man-friend--I mean a good man for a real +friend, and I knew Richard would be that, though he was a brother! Most +brothers are not friends to poor girls. I know three whose brothers get +all they can out of them, and don't care how they have to slave for it, +and then spend it on treats to other girls! But I was sure Richard was +good, though he wasn't religious! So I said to mamma that, now we knew +all about it, there could be no reason why we shouldn't see as much of +each other as ever we liked, seeing Richard was our brother. But she +paid no heed to me; she sat thinking and thinking; and I read in her +face that she was not in a brown study, but trying to get at something. +It was many minutes before she spoke, but she did at last, and what she +told us is my secret, Barbara! But I'm not bound to keep it from you, +for I know you would not hurt Richard, and you have a right to know +whatever I know, for you found my life and wrapped it up in love and +gave it back to me, _dear_ Barbara!--It was not a pretty story for a +mother to tell her children--and it's a sore grief not to be able +to think _every_thing that's good of your mother; but it's all past +now;--and it ain't our fault--is it, Barbara?” + +“Your fault!” cried Barbara. “What do you mean?” + +“People treat us as if it were.” + +“Never you mind. You've got a Father in heaven to see to that!” + +“Thank you, Barbara! You make me so happy! Now I can tell you +all!--'I've got it!' cried my mother. 'Bless my soul, what an ass I was +not to see through it at once! Now you just listen to me: sir Wilton was +married before he married his present wife. He never thought of +getting rid of me for the first one, you understand, for she wasn't a +lady--though they do say she _was_ a handsome creature! She was that +low, you wouldn't believe!--just nobody at all! Her father was--what do +you think?--a country blacksmith! And though he had me, he _would_ marry +her! Oh the men! the men! they are incomprehensible! It made me mad! To +think he wouldn't marry me, and he would marry her, and I might have had +him myself if I'd only been as hard-hearted and stood out as long! But +the fact was, I was in love with your father! No one could help it, when +he laid himself out to make you! I couldn't anyhow, though I tried hard. +But _she_ could! For all her beauty, she was that cold! ice was +nothing to her! He told me so himself!--Well, when her time came, she +died--never more than just saw the child, and died. I believe myself +she died of fright; for sir Wilton told me he was the ugliest child ever +came into this world! He must, said his father, have come straight from +the devil, for no one else could have made him so ugly! Well, what must +your father go and do next, but marry an earl's daughter!--nobody too +good for him after the blacksmith's!--and within a month or so, what +should his nurse do but walk off with the child! From that day to this, +so far as ever I've heard, there's been no news of him. It's years and +years that all the world has given him up for lost. Now, mark what I +say: I feel morally certain that this Richard, as you call him, is +that same child, and heir to all the Lestrange property! That woman, +Tuke--what a name!--she's the nurse that carried him off; and who knows +but the man married her for the chance of what the child's succession +might bring them! They mean to tell the fellow, when the proper time +comes, how they saved him from being murdered by his stepmother, and +carried him off at the risk of their lives! Well they knew him for a pot +of money! You may be certain they've got all the proofs safe! I hate the +ugly devil! What right has he to come to an estate, and have my children +looked down upon by Mrs. Bookbinder! I'll put a spoke in her wheel, +though! I'll have one little finger in their pie! They shan't burn their +mouths with it--no, not they!' I treasured every word my mother said--I +was so glad all the while to think of Richard as the head of the family. +I could not help the feeling that I belonged to the family, for was not +the same blood in Richard and in us? 'Alice,' my mother said, 'mark my +words! That Richard, as you call him, is heir to the title and estate! +But if you speak one word on the subject until I give you leave, to your +Richard or to any live soul, I'll tear your tongue out--I will!--And +you know well that what I say, I do!' I knew well that poor mamma very +seldom did what she said, and I was not afraid of her; but I grew more +and more afraid of doing anything to interfere with Richard's prospects. +I met him one night in Regent-street, a terrible, stormy night, and +was so fluttered at seeing him, and so frightened lest I should let +something out that might injure him, that I nearly killed myself by +running against a lamp-post in my hurry to get away from him. But to be +quite honest with you, Barbara, what I was most afraid of was, that he +would go on falling in love with me; and that, when he found out what +we were to each other, it would break his heart: I have heard of such a +thing! For you see I durst not tell him! And besides, it mightn't be so, +after all! So I had to be cruel to him! He must have thought me a brute! +And now for him to appear, far away from everywhere, just in time to +save me from dying of cold and hunger--ain't it wonderful?” + +But Barbara sat silent. It was her turn to sit thinking and thinking. +Why had the strange story come to her ears? There must be something for +her to do in the next chapter of it! + +“How much do you think Richard may know about the thing?” she asked. + +“I don't believe he has a suspicion that he is anything but the son of +the bookbinder,” Alice answered. “If Mrs. Tuke did take him, I wonder +why it really was. What do you think, Barbara? To me she does not look +at all a designing woman. She may be a daring one: I could fancy her +sticking at nothing she saw reason for! If she did it she _must_ have +done it for the sake of the child!” + +“It was much too great a risk to run for any advantage to herself,” + assented Barbara “Then they have had to provide for him all the time! +Have they any children of their own?” + +“I don't think any.” + +“Then it is possible she took such a fancy to the child she was nursing, +that she could not bear to part with him. I have heard of women like +that, out with us.--But what are we to do, Alice? Is it right to leave +the thing so? Ought we not to do anything?” + +“I don't know; I can't tell a bit!” answered Alice. “I have thought +and thought, lying alone in the night, but never could make up my +mind. Supposing you were sure it was so, there is yet the danger of +interfering with those who know all about him, and can do the best for +him; and there's the danger of what my mother might be tempted to do +the moment any one moved in the matter. To hasten the thing might spoil +all!--Isn't it strange, Barbara, how much your love for your mother +seems independent of her--her character?” + +“I don't know;--yes, I think you are right. There is my mother, who has +no guile in her, but is ready to burn you to ashes before you know what +she is angry about! When you trust her, and go to her for help, she +is ready to die for you. I love her with all my heart, but I can't +say she's an exemplary woman. I don't think Mr. Wingfold--that's our +clergyman--would say so either, though he professes quite an admiration +of her.” + +Thereupon Barbara told Alice the story of her mother's behaviour in +church, and how the parson had caught her. + +“But nobody knows to this day,” she concluded, “whether he intended +so to catch her, or was only teaching his people by a parable, and she +caught herself in its meshes. Caught she was, anyhow, and has never +entered the church since! But she speaks very differently of the +clergyman now.” + +“I feel greatly tempted sometimes,” resumed Alice, “to let Richard know; +for, surely, whatever be the projects of other people concerning him, a +man has the right to know where he came from!” + +“Yes,” answered Barbara, “a man must have the right to know what other +people know about him! And yet it would be a pity to ruin the plans +of good people who had all the time been working and caring for him. +I wonder if he was in danger from lady Ann? I have heard out there of +terrible things done to get one's way! She _is_ a death-like woman! His +nurse might well be afraid of what his stepmother might do! I can quite +fancy her making off with him in an agony of terror lost he should be +poisoned, or smothered, or buried alive! But what if they sent him away, +with a hint to the nurse that his absence might as well be permanent? +What if any search they made for him was nothing but a farce? I wish we +knew what ground there is for inquiring whether he may not be the child +that was lost--if indeed there was a child lost! I have not heard at the +house any allusion to such an occurrence.” + +Much more talk ensued. The girls came to the conclusion that, for the +present, they must do nothing that might let the secret out of their +keeping. They must wait and watch: when the right thing grew plain, they +would do it! + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. _BARBARA THINKS_. + +Barbara rode home with strange things in her mind. Here was a romance +brought to her very door! She was nowise hungry after romance, being +of the essence of romance her own lovely self, in the simplicity which +carried her direct to the heart of things. She was life in such relation +to life, that her very existence was natural romance. How should there +be any romance to equal that of pure being, of existence regarded and +encountered face to face, of the voyage forth from the heart of life, +and the toilsome journey, peril-beset, back to the home of that same +heart of hearts! Here was one wrapt in a strange cloud: why should she +not pass through the cloud, and join her fellow-traveller within? + +Naturally then, from this time, the thoughts of Barbara rested not a +little upon the person and undeveloped history of the man with whose +being she was before linked by a greater indebtedness than any but +herself could understand. Any enlargement of relation to the unseen +world--the world, I mean, of thought and reality, region of recognizable +relation, or force--is an immeasurably more precious gift than any +costliest thing that a mortal may call his own until death, but must +then pass on to another; and Richard had thrown open to Barbara the +wealthiest regions of the literature of her race! She, on her part, had +so much influenced him, that he had at least become far less overbearing +in the presentment of his unbelief. For Barbara's idea, call it, if you +will, her imagination of a God, was one with which none of those things +for the hate's sake of which he had become the champion of a negation, +held fellowship; and he carried himself toward it with so much courtesy +that she had begun to hope he was slowly following her out of the +desert places, where, little as she yet knew about God, she felt life +impossible. The strongest bonds were thus in process of binding them; +and Barbara's feeling toward Richard might very naturally develop into +one or other of the million forms to which we give the common name of +love. + +As for Richard, he was already aware that his feeling toward Barbara +could be no other than love; but he knew love as only the few know it +who _give_ themselves, who cherish no hope, look for no response, dream +of no claim. To expect any return of his devotion would have seemed to +Richard the simplest absurdity. He did not even say to himself that the +thing could not be. Not therefore, however, was he to escape suffering; +the seeds of it were already sown in him plentifully, though its first +leaves are not to be distinguished from those of other plants, and it +sometimes takes long for the flower to appear. Barbara was lovely to +Richard as the Luna of a heavenly sky, descending and talking with him, +the Diana of a lower world, bound by her destiny, and without a choice, +to return to her heaven, and be once more the far, unapproachable Luna. +She shone in his eyes like a lovely mysterious gem which he might wear +for an hour, but which must presently, with its hundred-fold shadow and +shine, pass from his keeping. He knew that love was his, but he did not +know that he was Love's. He knew he loved Barbara, but he did not know +that her exquisiteness was permeating his whole being with an endless +possession. In truth no man good and free could have kept her soul out +of his. She was so delicate, yet so strong; so steady, yet so ready; so +original, yet so infinitely responsive--what could he do but throw his +doors wide to her! what could he do but love her! + +And now that Barbara believed she knew more about him than he did +himself; now that the road appeared to lie open between them, would +she escape falling in love with such a man whose hands of labour were +mastered with a head full of understanding, and whose head was +quickened by a heart in which dwelt an imagination at once receptive and +productive? Could any true woman despise the love of such a workman? + +From this time, for some weeks, they saw less of each other. Without +knowing it, Barbara had, since the revelation of Alice, grown a little +shy of Richard. It came of her truthfulness, mainly. As Dante felt +ashamed of the discourteous advantage of alone possessing eyesight +in the presence of the poor souls upon the second cornice of the +purgatorial mountain, just so Barbara, without altogether defining to +herself her feeling, regarded it as unfair to Richard, as indeed taking +an advantage of him, to seek his company knowing about him more than she +seemed to know. She felt even deceitful in appearing to know of him only +what he chose to tell her, while in truth she more than suspected she +knew of him what he did not know himself. She not only knew more than +she seemed to know, but she knew more than Richard himself knew! At the +same time she felt that she had no right to tell him what she almost +believed; she ought first to be certain of it! If the conjecture were +untrue, what harm might it not, believed by him, occasion both to him +and his parents! Supposing it true, if those who had cherished him all +his life did not tell him the fact, could it be right in her, coming by +accident upon it, to acquaint him with it? Whether true or not, it must, +if believed by him, change the whole tenor of his way--might perhaps, +seeing he had no faith in God, destroy the very tone of his life; +certainly, if untrue, it would cause endless grief to the parents whom +to believe it would be to repudiate! Richard was indeed, she allowed, in +less danger of being injured by the suggestion than any other young man +she had known; but the risk, a great one, was there. + +She did not now, therefore, go so often to Mortgrange. Every day she +went out for her gallop--unattended, for, accustomed to the freedom of +hundreds of leagues of wild country, the very notion of a groom behind +her was hateful--and would often find herself making for some point +whence she could see the chimneys of the house when the resolve of the +day was one of abstinence, but that resolve she never broke. If it was +not the drawing-room and Theodora, but the library and Richard; not the +hideous flowers that happily never came alive from lady Ann's needle, +but the old books reviving to autumnal beauty under the patient, healing +touch of the craftsman, that ever drew her all the way, who can wonder! +Or who will blame her but such as lady Ann, whose kind, though slowly, +yet surely vanishes--melting, like the grimy snow of our streets, before +the sun of righteousness, and the coming kingdom. + +Lady Ann and she were now on the same footing as before their +misunderstanding, if indeed their whole relation was anything better +than a misunderstanding; for what lady Ann knew of Barbara she +misunderstood, and what she did not know of Barbara was the best of her; +while what Barbara knew of lady Ann, she also misunderstood, and what +she did not know of lady Ann was the worse of her. But Barbara had told +lady Ann that she was sorry she had spoken to her as she had, and lady +Ann had received the statement as an expected apology. Their quarrel had +indeed given lady Ann no uneasiness. Daughter of one ancient house, and +mother in another, a pillar of society, a live dignity with matronly +back flat as any coffin-lid, she was of course in the right, and could +afford to await the acknowledgment of wrong due and certain from an +ill bred and ill educated chit of the colonies! For how could any one +continue indifferent to the favour of lady Ann! She was incapable of +perceiving the merit of Barbara's apology, or appreciating the sweetness +from which it came. For the genial Barbara could not bear dissension. +She had seen enough of it to hate it. In just defence of a friend she +would fight to the last, but in any matter of her own, she was ready to +see, or even imagine herself in the wrong. Anger in its reaction always +made her feel ill, which feeling she was apt to take for a reminder from +conscience, when she would make haste to apologize. + +Lady Ann's relations with Barbara were therefore not so much restored as +unchanged. The elder lady neither sought nor avoided the younger, gave +her always the same cold welcome and farewell, yet was as much pleased +to see her as ever to see anybody. She regarded her as the merest of +butterflies, with pretty flutter and no stay--a creature of wings and +nonsense, carried hither and thither by slightest puff of inclination: +it was the judgment of a caterpillar upon a humming bird. There was more +stuff in Barbara, with all her seeming volatility, than in a wilderness +of lady Anns. The friendship between such a twain could hardly consist +in more than the absence of active disapproval. + +When Barbara went into the library, she would always greet Richard as if +she had seen him but the day before, asking what piece of work he was +at now, and showing an interest in it as genuine as her interest in +himself. If there was anything in it she did not quite understand, he +must there and then explain it. So eager was she to know, that he had +not seldom to remind her that his minutes were not his own. But now and +then he would lay aside his work for a time, never forgetting to make up +for the interval afterward, and show her some process from beginning to +end. For Barbara, finding now more time on her hands, had begun to try +her repairing faculty on some of the old books in the house, hoping +one day to surprise Richard with what she had done, and this led to her +asking many and far-reaching questions in the art. + +But Richard continued to give her his more important aid: he was +still her master in literature, directing her what to read and what to +meditate, and instructing her how to get her mind to rest on things. He +was the most capable of teachers, for he followed simply the results of +his own experience. Having prepared for her, with his father's help, a +manuscript-book of hand-made paper, bound in levant morocco, the edges +gilded in the rough, he made her copy certain poems into it, attending +carefully to every point, and each minutest formality. He would not have +her copy whatever she might choose; she could not yet, he said, choose +to advantage; for she was of such a “keen clear joyance,” that, happy +over what was not the best, she would waste her love. But neither +would he altogether choose for her: from among the poems he had already +brought before her, she must take those she liked best! This, he said, +would make her choice a real one, for it would take place between +poems already known to her, with regard to which therefore she was in a +position to determine her own preference. Then the unavoidable brooding +over it caused in the copying of the one chosen, would make it grow in +her mind, and assume something of the shape it had in the author's. + +To Arthur Lestrange, who, notwithstanding the unlikeness between him +and Barbara, and notwithstanding the frequent shocks his conventional +propriety received from her divine liberty, had been for some time +falling in love with her, these interviews, which he never hesitated +to interrupt the moment he pleased, could hardly be agreeable. He never +supposed that in them anything passed of which he could have complained +had he been the girl's affianced lover; but he did not relish the +thought that she looked to the workman and not his employer for help in +her studies. Nor was it consolation to him to be aware that he could +no more give her what the workman gave her, than he could teach her his +bookbinding--at which also the eager Barbara grasped. + +At Wylder Hall no questions were ever asked as to how she had spent the +day. Her mother, although now that her twin was gone, she loved her best +in the world, never troubled her head about what she did with herself. +Although Barbara was now a little more at home than formerly, she and +her mother were scarcely together an hour in a week except at meals. She +thought Arthur Lestrange would make a good enough husband for Bab, +and, having chanced on some sign that her husband cherished hopes of a +loftier alliance, grew rather favourable to a match between them. + +There was, however, a little betterment in Mrs. Wylder, and her ceasing +to go to church was only one of the indications of it. She had in her +a foundation of genuine simplicity, and was in essence a generous soul. +Any one who wondered at the combination of strange wild charm and honest +strength in the daughter, would have wondered much less had he gained +the least insight into what, beneath the ruin of earthquake and tornado, +lay buried in the soul of her mother. The best of changes is slow in +most natures, and the main question is, perhaps, whether it goes slowly +because of feebleness and instability, and consequent frequency of +relapse, or because of the root-nature, the thoroughness, and the +magnitude of what has been initiated. But Mrs. Wylder was tropical: any +real change in her would soon reach a point where it must become swift +as well as comprehensive. + +Since returning to the trammels of a more civilized life, Mr. Wylder had +grown self-absorbed, and from a loud, lawless man had become a sombre, +sometimes morose person. One great cause of the change, however, was, +that the remaining twin, his favourite, had for some time shown signs of +a failing constitution. His increasing feebleness weighed heavily on his +father. He had had a tutor ever since they came to England, but now they +did little or no work together, spending their hours mostly in wandering +about the grounds, and in fitful reading of books of any sort in which +the boy could be led to take a passing interest. Barbara's heart yearned +after him, but he was greatly attached to his nurse, and did not care +for Barbara. + +The dissension between husband and wife about the twins, had its origin +mainly with the mother, but sprang from the generosity of her nature: +the twin she favoured was sickly from infancy. A woman such as Mrs. +Wylder might have been expected to shrink from the puny, suffering +creature, and give her affection and approbation to the other, as +did her husband; but it was just here that the true in her, the pure +womanly, came to the surface and then to the front: the child had an +appealing look, which, when first she saw him, went straight to the +heart of the strong mother, and afterward roused, if not enough of the +protective, yet all the defensive in her. From herself she did not, and +from death she could not save him. He died rather suddenly, and now the +strong one seemed slowly sinking. The mother did not heed him, and the +father, for very misery, could scarcely look at him: he was to him like +one dead already, only not dead enough to be buried. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. _WINGFOLD AND BARBARA_. + +The bickerings between her father and mother had had not a little to do +with the peculiar features of Barbara's life in the colony. As soon as +she saw a cloud rising, having learned by frequent experience what +it was sure to result in, she would creep away, mount one of the many +horses at her choice, and race from the house like a dog in terror, till +she was miles from the spot where her father and mother would by that +time be writhing in fiercest wordy warfare. What the object of their +wrangling might be, she never inquired. It was plain to her almost from +the first that nothing was gained by it beyond the silence of fatigue; +and as that silence was always fruitful of new strife, it brought a +comfort known to be but temporary. Had she not been accustomed to it +from earliest childhood, it would have been terrible to her to see human +lives going off in such a foul smoke of hell! Not a sentence was +uttered by the one but was furiously felt as a wrong by the other--to +be remorselessly met by wrong as flagrant, rousing in its turn the +indignation of injury to a pain unendurable. It is strange that the man +who most keenly feels the wrong done him, should so often be the most +insensible to the wrong he does. So dominant is the unreason of the +moment, that the injury he inflicts appears absolute justice, and the +injury he suffers absolute injustice. Yet such disputes turn seldom upon +the main point at issue between the parties; it may not even once be +mentioned, while some new trifle is fought over with all the bitterness +of the alienation that lies gnawing and biting and burning beneath. +War is raging between kingdoms for the possession of a hovel, which +possessed, the quarrel were no nearer settlement than before! + +Hence it came that Barbara paid so little regard to her mother's +challenge of the clergyman. Single combat of the sort she seemed to +seek was an experience of Barbara's life too often recurrent to be +interesting; the thunders of its artillery, near or afar, passed over +her almost unheeded. She had indeed sufficient respect for the forms of +religion to regret that her mother should make her behaviour in church +the talk of the parish, and to be rather pleased that the clergyman +should have had the best of it in his joust of arms with her, but +further interest in the matter she scarcely took. + +On a certain day, Miss Brown wanting at least one pair of new shoes, and +her mistress cherishing the idea of a lesson in shoeing her, for which +lesson arrangement had not even yet been made, Barbara, having been all +the afternoon in the house, went out toward sunset, to have a walk with +a book. + +She was sauntering along a grassy road which, though within their +own park, belonged to the public, when she almost ran against a man +similarly occupied with herself, for he also was absorbed in the book +he carried. I should like to know what two books brought them thus +together! Each started back with an apology, then both burst into a +modest laugh, which renewed itself with merrier ring, when the first and +then the second attempt to pass, with all space for elbow-room, failed, +and they stood opposite each other in a hopeless mental paralysis. + +“Fate is opposed to our unneighbourliness!” said Mr. Wingfold. “She +will not allow us to pass, and depart in peace! What do you say, Miss +Wylder?--shall we yield or shall we resist?” As he spoke, he held out +his hand. + +Now Barbara was the last person in the world to refuse, without a +painfully good reason, any offered hand. She had never seen cause to +desire the acquaintance of a man because he was a clergyman; but neither +had she any unwillingness, because he was a clergyman, to make his +acquaintance; while to Thomas Wingfold she already felt some attraction: +the strong little hand was in his immediately, and felt comfortable in +the great honest clasp, which it returned heartily. + +“I never saw you on your own feet before, Miss Wylder!” said the +clergyman. + +“Nor on anybody else's, I hope!” she returned. + +“Oh, yes, indeed!--on Miss Brown's many a time!” + +“You know Miss Brown then? She is my most intimate friend!” + +“I am well aware of that! Everything worth knowing in the parish, and a +good deal that is not, comes to my ears.” + +“May I hope you count Miss Brown's affairs worth hearing about, then?” + +“Of course I do! Does not a lady call her friend, whose acquaintance I +have long wished to make! and do I not know that Miss Brown loves her in +return! I cannot help sometimes regretting for a moment that four-footed +friends in general are so short-lived.” + +“Why only for a moment?” said Barbara. + +“Because I remind myself that it must be best for them and us--best for +the friendship between us, best for us every way. But indeed I have more +to be thankful for in the relation than most people of my acquaintance, +for I sometimes drive a pony yet that is over forty!” + +“Forty years of age!” + +“Yes.” + +“I should like to see that pony!” + +“You shall see her, any day you will come to the parsonage. I will +gladly introduce her to you, but it is getting rather late to desire her +acquaintance: she does not see very well, and is not so good-tempered as +she once was. But she will soon be better.” + +“How do you mean?” + +“She has a process to go through out of which she will come ever so much +the better.” + +“Good gracious! you're not going to have an operation performed on +her--at _her_ age?” + +“She is going to have her body stript off her!” + +“Good gracious!” cried Barbara again, but with yet greater energy--then +seeing what he meant, laughed at her mistake. + +“But then,” she said, with eager resumption, “you must believe there is +something to strip her body off? _I_ do! I have always thought so!” + +“So have I, and so I do indeed!” answered Wingfold. “I can't prove it. I +can't prove anything--to my own satisfaction, that is, though I dare say +I might to the satisfaction of one who did not love the creatures enough +to be anxious about them. I don't think you can prove anything that is +worth being anxious about.” + +“Then why do you believe it?” asked Barbara, influenced by the talk of +the century. + +“Because I _can_,” answered Wingfold. “To believe and to be able to +prove, have little or nothing to do with each other. To believe and to +convince have much to do with each other.” + +“But,” persisted Barbara, with Richard in her mind, “how are you to be +sure of a thing you can't prove?” + +“That's a good question, and this is my answer,” said Wingfold:--“What +you love, you already believe enough to put it to the proof of trial. My +life is such a proving; and the proof is so promising that it fills me +with the happiest hope. To prove with your brains the thing you love, +would be to deck the garments of salvation with a useless fringe. Shall +I search heaven and earth for proof that my wife is a good and lovely +woman? The signs of it are everywhere; the proofs of it nowhere.” + +They walked along for a while, side by side, in silence. Which had +turned and gone with the other neither knew. Barbara was beginning +already to feel that safety which almost everybody sooner or later came +to feel in Wingfold's company--a safety born of the sense that, in +the closest talk, he never lay in wait for a victory, but took his +companion, as one of his own people, into the end after which he was +striving. + +“Then,” said Barbara at length, still thinking of Richard, “if you +believe that even the beasts are saved, you must think it very bad of a +man not to believe in a God!” + +“I should think anyhow that he didn't care much about the beasts--that +he hadn't a heart big enough to take the beasts in!” + +“But he couldn't, you know, if he didn't believe in God!” + +“I understand; only, if he loved the poor beasts very much, and thought +what a bad time they have of it in the world, I don't know how he could +help _hoping_ at least, that there was a God somewhere who would somehow +make up to them for it all! For my own part I don't know how to be +content except the beasts themselves, when it is all over and the good +time come, are able to say, 'After all, it is well worth it, bad as it +was!'” + +“But what if it was just that suffering that made the man think there +could not be a God, or he would put a stop to it?” + +“That looks to me very close to believing in God.” + +“How do you make that out?” + +“If a man believed in a God that did not heed the suffering of the +creation, one who made men and women and beasts knowing that they must +suffer, and suffer only--and went on believing so however you set him +thinking about it, I should say to him, 'You believe in a devil, and +so are in the way to become a devil yourself.' A thousand times rather +would I believe that there was no God, and that the misery came by +chance from which there was no escape. What I do believe is, that there +is a God who is even now doing his best to take all men and all beasts +out of the misery in which they find themselves.” + +“But why did he let them come into it?” + +“That the God will tell them, to their satisfaction, so soon as ever +they shall have become capable of understanding it. There must be things +so entirely beyond our capacity, that we cannot now see enough of them +to be able even to say that they are incomprehensible. There must be +millions of truths that have not yet risen above the horizon of what we +call the finite.” + +“Then you would not think a person so very, very wicked, for not +believing in a God?” + +“That depends on the sort of God he fancied himself asked to believe in. +Would you call a Greek philosopher wicked for not believing in Mercury +or Venus? If a man had the same notion of God that I have, or anything +like it, and did not at least desire that there might be such a God, +then I confess I should have difficulty in understanding how he could +be good. But the God offered him might not be worth believing in, might +even be such that it was a virtuous act to refuse to believe in him.” + +“One thing more, Mr. Wingfold--and you must not think I am arguing +against you or against God, for if I thought there was no God, I should +just take poison:--tell me, mightn't a man think the idea of such a God +as you believe in, too good to be true?” + +“I should need to know something of his history, rightly to understand +that. Why should he be able to think anything too good to be true? Why +should a thing not be true because it was good? It seems to me, if a +thing be bad, it cannot possibly be true. If you say the thing is, I +answer it exists because of something under the badness. Badness by +itself can have no life in it. But if the man really thought as you +suggest, I would say to him, 'You cannot _know_ such a being does not +exist: is it possible you should be content that such a being should +not exist? If such a being did exist, would you be content never to find +him, but to go on for ever and ever saying, _He can't be! He can't be! +He's so good he can't be!_ Supposing you find one day that there he is, +will your defence before him be satisfactory to yourself: “There he is +after all, but he was too good to believe in, therefore I did not try +to find him”? Will you say to him--“_If you had not been so good, if you +had been a little less good, a little worse, just a trifle bad, I could +and would have believed in you?”_'” + +“But if the man could not believe there was any such being, how could he +have heart to look for him?” + +“If he believed the idea of him so good, yet did not desire such a being +enough to wish that he might be, enough to feel it worth his while to +cry out, in some fashion or other, after him, then I could not help +suspecting something wrong in his will, or his moral nature somewhere; +or, perhaps, that the words he spoke were but words, and that he did +not really and truly feel that the idea of such a God was too good to +be true. In any such case his maker would not have cause to be satisfied +with him. And if his maker was not satisfied with what he had made, do +you think the man made would have cause to be satisfied with himself?” + +“But if he was made so?” + +“Then no good being, not to say a faithful creator, would blame him for +what he could not help. If the God had made his creature incapable of +knowing him, then of course the creature would not feel that he +needed to know him. He would be where we generally imagine the lower +animals--unable, therefore not caring to know who made him.” + +“But is not that just the point? A man may say truly, 'I don't feel +I want to know anything about God; I do not believe I am made to +understand him; I take no interest in the thought of a God'!” + +“Before I could answer you concerning such a man, I should want to know +whether he had not been doing as he knew he ought not to do, living +as he knew he ought not to live, and spoiling himself, so spoiling the +thing that God had made that, although naturally he would like to know +about God, yet now, through having by wrong-doing injured his deepest +faculty of understanding, he did not care to know anything concerning +him.” + +“What could be done for such a man?” + +“God knows--God _does_ know. I think he will make his very life a +terrible burden, so that for pure misery he will cry to him.” + +“But suppose he was a man who tried to do right, who tried to help his +neighbour, who was at least so far a good man as to deny the God that +most people seem to believe in--what would you say then?” + +“I would say, 'Have patience.' If there be a good God, he cannot be +altogether dissatisfied with such a man. Of course it is something +wanting that makes him like that, and it may be he is to blame, or it +may be he can't help it: I do not know when any man has arrived at the +point of development at which he is capable of believing in God: the +child of a savage may be capable, and a gray-haired man of science +incapable. If such a man says, 'The question of a God is not interesting +to me,' I believe him; but, if he be such a man as you have last +described, I believe also that, as God is taking care of him who is the +God of patience, the time must come when something will make him want to +know whether there be a God, and whether he cannot get near him, so as +to be near him.' I would say, 'He is in God's school; don't be too much +troubled about him, as if God might overlook and forget him. He will see +to all that concerns him. He has made him, and he loves him, and he is +doing and will do his very best for him.'” + +“Oh, I am so glad to hear you speak like that!” cried Barbara. “I didn't +know clergymen were like that! I'm sure they don't talk like that in the +pulpit!” + +“Well, you know a man can't just chat with his people in the pulpit +as he may when he has one alone to himself! For, you see, there are +hundreds there, and they are all very different, and that must make +a difference in the way he can talk to them. There are multitudes who +could not understand a word of what we have been saying to each, other! +But if a clergyman says anything in the pulpit that differs in essence +from what he says out of it, he is a false prophet, and has no business +anywhere but in the realm of falsehood.” + +“Why is he in the church, then?” + +“If there be any such man in the church of England, we have to ask first +how he got into it. I used to think the bishop who ordained him must be +to blame for letting such a man in. But I am told the bishops haven't +the power to keep out any one who passes their examination, provided he +is morally decent; and if that be true, I don't know what is to be done. +What I know is, that I have enough to do with my parish, and that to +mind my work is the best I can do to set the church right.” + +“I suppose the bishops--some of them at least--would say, 'If we do not +take the men we can get, how is the work of the church to go on?'” + +“I presume that even such bishops would allow that the business of the +church is to teach men about God: that they cannot get men who know God, +is a bad argument for employing men who do not know him to teach others +about him. It is founded on utter distrust of God. I believe the only +way to set the thing right is to refuse the bad that there may be room +for God to send the good. By admitting the false they block the way for +the true. But the poor bishops have great difficulties. I am glad I am +not a bishop! My parish is nearly too much for me sometimes!” + +Barbara could not help thinking how her mother alone had been almost too +much for him. + +Their talk the rest of the way was lighter and more general; and to her +great joy Barbara discovered that the clergyman loved books the same way +the bookbinder loved them. But she did not mention Richard. + +The parson took leave of her at a convenient issue from the park. But +before she had gone many steps he came running after her and said-- + +“By the way, Miss Wylder, here are some verses that may please you! We +were talking about our hopes for the animals! I heard the story they are +founded on the other day from my friend the dissenting minister of +the village. The little daughter of Dr. Doddridge, the celebrated +theologian, was overheard asking the dog if he knew who made him. +Receiving no reply, she said what you will find written there as the +text of the poem.” + +He put a paper in her hand, and left her. She opened it, and found what +follows:-- + +DR. DODDRIDGE'S DOG. + +“What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you!” + + My little dog, who blessed you + With such white toothy-pegs? + And who was it that dressed you + In such a lot of legs! + + I'm sure he never told you + Not to speak when spoken to! + But it's not for me to scold you:-- + Dogs bark, and pussies mew! + + I'll tell you, little brother, + In case you do not know:-- + One only, not another, + Could make us two just so. + + You love me?--Quiet!--I'm proving!-- + It must be God above + That, filled those eyes with loving!-- + He was the first to love! + + One day he'll stop all sadness-- + Hark to the nightingale! + Oh blessed God of gladness!-- + Come, doggie, wag your tail! + + That's “Thank you, God!”--He gave you + Of life this little taste; + And with more life he'll save you, + Not let you go to waste! + + So we'll live on together, + And share our bite and sup; + Until he says, “Come hither,”-- + And lifts us both high up! + +Barbara was so much pleased with the verses that she thought them a +great deal better than they were. + +Wingfold walked home thinking how, in his dull parish, where so few +seemed to care whether they were going back to be monkeys or on to be +men, he had yet found two such interesting young people as Richard and +Barbara. + +He had come upon Richard again at his grandfather's, had had a little +more talk with him, and had found him not so far from the kingdom of +heaven but that he cared to deny a false god; and he had just discovered +in Barbara, who so seldom went to church and who came of such strange +parents, one in whom the love of God was not merely innate, but keenly +alive. The heart of the one recoiled from a God that was not; the heart +of the other was drawn to a God of whom she knew little: were not the +two upon converging tracks? What to most clergymen would have seemed the +depth of a winter of unbelief, seemed to Wingfold a springtime full of +the sounds of the rising sap. + +“What man,” he said to himself, “knowing the care that some men have of +their fellow-men, even to the spending of themselves for them, can doubt +that, loving the children, they must one day love the father! Who more +welcome to the heart of the eternal father, than the man who loves his +brother, whom also the unchanging father loves!” + +Personally, I find the whole matter of religious teaching and observance +in general a very dull business--as dull as most secular teaching. If +salvation is anything like what are commonly considered its _means_, it +is to me a consummation devoutly to be deprecated. But no one ever found +Wingfold dull. For one thing he scarcely thought about the church, and +never mistook it for the kingdom of God. Its worldly affairs gave him no +concern, and party-spirit was loathsome to him as the very antichrist. +He was a servant of the church universal, of all that believed or ever +would believe in the Lord Christ, therefore of all men, of the whole +universe--and first, of every man, woman, and child in his own parish. +But though he was the servant of the boundless church, no church was +his master. He had no master but the one lord of life. Therefore the +so-called prosperity of the church did not interest him. He knew that +the Master works from within outward, and believed no danger possible to +the church, except from such of its nominal pastors as know nothing +of the life that works leavening from within. The will of God was all +Wingfold cared about, and if the church was not content with that, the +church was nothing to him, and might do to him as it would. He did not +spend his life for the people because he was a parson, but he was a +parson because the church of England gave him facilities for spending +his life for the people. He gave himself altogether to the Lord, and +therefore to his people. He believed in Jesus Christ as the everyday +life of the world, whose presence is just us needful in bank, or shop, +or house of lords, as at what so many of the clergy call the altar. When +the Lord is known as the heart of every joy, as well as the refuge +from every sorrow, then the altar will be known for what it is--an +ecclesiastical antique. The Father permitted but never ordained +sacrifice; in tenderness to his children he ordered the ways of their +unbelieving belief. So at least thought and said Wingfold, and if he did +not say so in the pulpit, it was not lest his fellows should regard +him as a traitor, but because so few of his people would understand. He +would spend no strength in trying to shore up the church; he sent his +life-blood through its veins, and his appeal to the Living One, for +whose judgment he waited. + +The world would not perish if what is called the church did go to +pieces; a truer church, for there might well be a truer, would arise out +of her ruins. But let no one seek to destroy; let him that builds only +take heed that he build with gold and silver and precious stones, not +with wood and hay and stubble! If the church were so built, who could +harm it! if it were not in part so built, it would be as little worth +pulling down as letting stand. There is in it a far deeper and better +vitality than its blatant supporters will be able to ruin by their +advocacy, or the enviers of its valueless social position by their +assaults upon that position. + +Wingfold never thought of associating the anxiety of the heiress with +the unbelief of the bookbinder. He laughed a laugh of delight when +afterward he learned their relation to each other. + +The next Sunday, Barbara was at church, and never afterward willingly +missed going. She sought the friendship of Mrs. Wingfold, and found at +last a woman to whom she could heartily look up. She found in her also +a clergyman's wife who understood her husband--not because he was +small-minded, but because she was large-hearted--and fell in thoroughly +with his modes of teaching his people, as well as his objects in regard +to them. She never sought to make one in the parish a churchman, but +tried to make every one she had to do with a scholar of Christ, a child +to his father in heaven. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. _THE SHOEING OF MISS BROWN_. + +Two days after, on a lovely autumn evening, Barbara rode Miss Brown +across the fields, avoiding the hard road even more carefully than +usual. For Miss Brown, as I have said, was in want of shoes, and Barbara +herself was to have a hand in putting them on. + +The red-faced, white-whiskered, jolly old Simon stood at the smithy door +to receive her: he had been watching for her, and had heard the gentle +trot over the few yards of road that brought her in sight. With a merry +greeting he helped her down from the great mare. It was but the sense +that his blackness was not ingrain, that kept him from taking her in +his arms like a child, and lifting her down--so small was she, and so +friendly and childlike. She would have shaken hands with him, but he +would not with her; it would make her glove, he said, as black as his +apron. Barbara pulled off her glove, and gave him her dainty little +hand, which the blacksmith took at once, being too much of a gentleman +not to know where respect becomes rudeness. He clasped the lovely loan +with the sturdy reverence of his true old heart, saying her hand should +pay her footing in the trade. + +“Lord, miss, ain't I proud to make a smith of you!” he said. “Only you +must do nothing but shoe! I can't let you spoil your hands! You can keep +Miss Brown shod without doing that!--Here comes Dick for his part! He +might have left it to who taught him! Did he think the old man would be +rough with missie?--I dare say, now, he's been teaching you that woman's +work of his this long time!” + +“Stop, stop, Mr. Armour!” cried Barbara. “When you see me shoe Miss +Brown, perhaps you won't care to talk about woman's work again!” + +Richard came up, took Miss Brown in, and put her in her place. The +smith knew exactly what sort and size of shoes she wanted, and had them +already so far finished that but a touch or so was necessary to make +them an absolute fit. Barbara tucked up her skirt, and secured it with +her belt. But this would not satisfy Simon. He had a little leather +apron ready for her, and nothing would serve but she must put it on +to protect her habit. Till this was done he would not allow her touch +hammer or nail. + +“Come, come, missie,” he said, “I'm king in my own shop, and you must do +as I tell you!” + +Thereupon Barbara, who had stood out only for the fun of the thing, put +on the leather apron with its large bib, and set about her work. + +Richard did not offer to put on the first shoe: he believed she had so +often watched the operation, that she must know perfectly what to do. +Nor was he disappointed. She proceeded like an adept. Happily Miss Brown +was very good. She was neither hungry nor thirsty; she had had just +enough exercise to make her willing to breathe a little; nothing had +gone wrong on the way to upset her delicate nerves--for, gentle and +loving as she always was, she was apt to be both apprehensive and +touchy; her digestion was all right, for she had had neither too much +corn nor too much grass; therefore she stood quite still, and if not +exactly full of faith, was yet troubled by no doubt as to the ability of +her mistress to put on her shoes for her--iron though they were, and to +be fastened with long sharp nails. + +Richard was nowise astonished at Barbara's coolness, or her courage, or +the business-like way in which she tucked the great hoof under her arm, +or even at the accurate aim which brought the right sort of blow down +on the head of nail after nail in true line with its length; but he +was astonished at the strength of her little hand, the hardness of her +muscles, covered with just fat enough to make form and movement alike +beautiful, and the knowing skill with which she twisted off the ends of +the nails: the quick turn necessary, she seemed to have by nature. In +her keen watching, she had so identified herself with the operator, that +perfect insight had supplied the place of active experience, and seemed +almost to have waked some ancient instinct that operated independent of +consciousness. The mare was shod, and well shod, without any accident; +and Richard felt no anxiety as he lifted the little lady to her back, +and saw her canter away as if she had been presented with fresh feathery +wings instead of only fresh iron shoes. + +He experienced, however, not a little disappointment: he had hoped to +walk a part of her way alongside of Miss Brown. Barbara had in truth +expected he would, but a sudden shyness came upon her, and made her +start at speed the moment she was in the saddle. Simon and Richard stood +looking after her. + +With a sharp scramble she turned. Richard darted forward. But nothing +was wrong with the mare. She came at a quick trot, and they were side +by side in a moment. Barbara had bethought herself that it was a pity +to get no more pleasure or profit out of the afternoon than just a +horse-shoeing! + +“She's all right!” she cried. + +Richard imagined she had but started to put her handiwork to the test. +They walked back to the old man, and once more she thanked him--in such +pretty fashion as made him feel a lord of the world. Then Richard and +she moved away together in the direction of Mortgrange, and left Simon +praying God to give them to each other before he died. + +They had not gone far when it became Richard's turn to stop. + +“Oh, miss,” he said, “I must go back! Neither of us has been to see +Alice, and I haven't for more than a week! Think of her lying there, +expecting and expecting, and no one coming! It's just the history of the +world! I must go back!” + +He would not have said so much but that Barbara sat regarding him +without response of word or look, appearing not to heed him. He began to +wonder. + +“Alice can't be dead!” he thought with himself, “She was pretty well +when I saw her last!” + +“She is gone,” said Barbara quietly, and the thought just discarded +returned on Richard with a sickening clearness. + +He stood and stared. Barbara saw him turn white, and understood his +mistake--so terrible to one who had no hope of ever again seeing a +departed friend. + +“She went home to her mother yesterday,” she said. + +Richard gave a great sigh of relief. + +“I thought she was dead!” he answered, “--and I had not been so good to +her as I might have been!” + +“Richard,” said Barbara--it was the first time she called him by his +name--“did anybody in the world ever do all he might to make his best +friends happy?” + +“No, miss, I don't think it. There must always be something more he +might have done.” + +“Then the better people become, the more lamentations, mourning, +and woe”--the words had taken hold of her at church the Sunday +before--“there must always be, because of those they shall never look +upon again, those to whom they shall never say, _I am sorry_! How comes +it that men are born into a world where there is nothing of what +they most need--consolation for the one inevitable thing, sorrow and +self-reproach?” + +“There is consolation--that it will soon be over, that we go to them!” + +“Go to them!” cried Barbara. “--We do not even go to look for them! We +shall not even know that we would find them if we could! We shall not +have even the consolation of suffering, of loving on in vain! The whole +thing is the most wrongful scorn, the most insulting mockery!--the +laughter of a devil at all that is noble and tender!--only there is not +even a devil to be angry with and defy!” + +Barbara spoke with an indignation that made her eloquent. Richard gave +her no answer: there was no logic in what Barbara said--nothing to +reply to! Why should life not be misery? Why should there be any one who +cared? There was no ground for thinking there might be one! The proof +was all the other way! The idea was too good to be true! Richard had +said so to himself a thousand times. But was the world indeed on such a +grand scale that to believe in anything better or other than it seemed, +was to believe too much--was to believe more than, without proof which +was not to be had, Richard would care to believe? The nature of the case +grew clearer to him. As a man does not fear death while yet it seems far +away, so a man may not shrink from annihilation while yet he does not +realize what it means. To cease may well seem nothing to a man who +neither loves much, nor feels the bitterness of regret for wrong done, +the gnawing of that remorse whose mother is tenderness! He was beginning +to understand this. + +The silence grew oppressive. It was as if each was dreaming of the other +dead. To break the pain of presence without communion, Richard spoke. + +“Can you tell me, miss,” he said, “why Alice went away without letting +me know? She might have done that!” + +“She had a good reason,” answered Barbara. + +“I can't think what it could be!” he returned. “I never was so long +without seeing her before, but surely she could not be so much offended +at that! You see, miss, I knew you went every day! and I knew I should +like that better than having any one else to come and see me! so I gave +myself no trouble. I never thought of her going for a long time yet! Did +her mother send her money?” + +“Not that I know of.” + +“Perhaps my grandfather lent her some! She couldn't have any herself! I +wonder why she dislikes me so much!” + +He was doubting whether she would have taken money from him, if he had +been in time to offer it. He did not like to ask Barbara if she had +helped her.--And then what was she to do when she got home? + +Barbara had let him talk, delighted to look in at the windows his words +went on opening. In particular it pleased and attracted her, that he was +so unconscious of the goodness he had shown Alice. Barbara and he made a +rare conjunction of likeness. So many will do a kindness who are not yet +capable of forgetting it! + +Barbara could not tell him that Alice was afraid to bid him good-bye +lest in her weakness she should render an explanation necessary. She did +not in the least doubt Richard was her brother, and her heart was full +of him. How often, as she lay alone, building her innocent and not very +wonderful castles, had she not imagined herself throwing her arms about +him, and kissing him at her will!--what if she should actually do so +when he came to bid her good-bye! Then she would have to tell him he was +her brother, and so perhaps might ruin everything! She must go without a +word! + +“She is far from disliking you,” said Barbara. + +“Why then did she not tell me, that I might have given her money for her +journey?” + +“There was no need of that,” returned Barbara. “She is my sister now, +and a sovereign or two is nothing between us.” + +“Oh, thank you! thank you, miss! Then she will have a little over when +she gets home! But I am afraid it will be long before she is able to +work again! It would be of no use to tell my mother, for somehow she +seems to have taken a great dislike to poor Alice. I am positive she +does not deserve it. My mother is the best woman I know, but she is very +stiff when she takes a dislike. Have you got her address, miss? Arthur +would take money from me, I think, but I don't know where he is. I was +always meaning to ask her, and always forgot.” + +“I will see she has everything she wants,” answered Barbara. + +“Bless your lovely heart, miss!” exclaimed Richard. “But I fear nothing +much will reach them so long as their mother is alive. She eats and +drinks the flesh and blood of her children. Nobody could help seeing it. +There's Arthur, cold, and thin, and miserable, without a greatcoat in +the bitterest weather! and Alice with hardly flesh enough for setting +to her great eyes! and Mrs. Manson well dressed, and eating the best +butter, and drinking the best bottled stout that money can buy! If only +their mother was like mine! If one of _her_ family had to starve, she +would claim it as her right. Such women as Mrs. Manson have no business +to be mothers! Why were _they_ made--if people _are_ made?” + +“Perhaps they will be made something of yet!” suggested Barbara. + +“If you're right, miss, and there be a God, either he's not so good as +you would be if you were God, or else somebody interferes, and won't let +him do his best.” + +“Shall I tell you what our clergyman said to me the other day?” returned +Barbara. + +“Yes, if you please, miss. I don't mind what _you_ say, because the God +you would have me believe in, is like yourself; and if he be, and be +like you, he will set everything tight as soon as ever he can.” + +“What Mr. Wingfold said was this--that it was not fair, when a man had +made something for a purpose, to say it was not good before we knew what +his purpose with it was. 'I don't like,' he said, 'even my wife to look +at my verses before they're finished! God can't hide away his work till +it is finished, as I do my verses, and we ought to take care what we +say about it. God wants to do something better with people than people +think.'” + +“Is he a poet?” said Richard. “But when I think how he looked at the +sunrise--of course he is! That man don't talk a bit like a clergyman, +miss; he talks just like any other man--only better than I ever heard +man talk before. I couldn't help liking him from the first, and wishing +I might meet him again! But I think I could put him a question or two +yet that would puzzle him!” + +“I don't know,” answered Barbara; “but one thing I am sure of, that, if +you did puzzle him, he would say he was puzzled, and must have time to +think it over!” + +“That is to behave like a man!--and after all, clergymen are men, and +there must be good men among them!--But do you think, miss, you could +get Arthur's address from Alice? The office is not where it used to be.” + +“I dare say I could.” + +“You see, miss, I shall have to go back to London.” + +There was a tone and tremble in his words, to which, not to the words +themselves, Barbara made reply. + +“Will anyone dare to say,” she rejoined, “that we shall not meet again?” + +“The sort of God you believe in, miss, would not say it,” he answered; +“but the sort of God my mother believes in would.” + +“I know nothing about other people's Gods,” rejoined Barbara. “Indeed,” + she added, “I know very little about my own; but I mean to know more: +Mr. Wingfold will teach me!” + +“Take care he don't overpersuade you, miss. You have been very good to +me, and I couldn't bear you to be made a fool of. Only _he_ can't be +just like the rest!” + +“He will persuade me of nothing that doesn't seem to me true--be certain +of that, Richard. And if it please God to part us, I will pray and keep +on praying to him to let us meet again. If I have been good to you, you +have been much better to me!” + +Richard was not elated. He only thought, “How kind of her!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. _RICHARD AND VIXEN_. + +Barbara turned her mare across the road, and sent her at the hedge. Miss +Brown cleared it like a stag, and took a bee-line along the grass for +Wylder Hall. Richard stood astonished. A moment before she was close +beside him, and now she was nearly out of his sight! The angel that +ascended from the presence of Manoah could scarcely have more amazed the +Danite. Though Richard could shoe a horse, he could no more have stuck +to Miss Brown over that hedge than he could have ascended with +the angel. He watched till she vanished, and then watched for her +reappearance at a point of hope beyond. Only when he knew that distance +and intervention rendered it impossible he should see her more, did he +turn and take his way to Mortgrange. + +He was as much in love with Barbara as a man could be who indulged no +hope whatever of marrying her--who was not even tempted to build the +humblest castle for her in the air of possibility. But so far was his +love from causing in him any kind of selfish absorption, that his +heart was much troubled at Alice's leaving him without a farewell. Her +behaviour woke in him his first sense of the inexplicable: he little +thought of its being but the first visible vapour of a mystery that +involved both his past and his future. All he knew was, that the sister +of his friend had, in a stormy night in London, fled from him as from +a wild beast; and that now, on a quiet morning in the country, she was +gone from his grandfather's house without a word of farewell to him who +had called him to her aid. + +“There must be a reason for everything,” he said to himself, “but some +reasons are hard to find!” + +The next day in the forenoon, Richard was busy as usual in the library. +Doors and windows were shut against draughts, for he was working with +gold-leaf on the tooling of an ancient binding. A door opened, and in +came the goblin of the house. Perceiving what Richard was about, she +came bounding, lithe as a cat, and making a willful wind with her +pinafore, blew away the leaf he was dividing on the cushion, and knocked +a book of gold-leaf to the floor. The book-mender felt very angry, but +put an extra guard on himself, caught her in a firm grasp, and proceeded +to expel her. She threw herself on the floor, and began to scream. +Richard took her up, laid her down in the hall, and closed and locked +the door by which she had entered. Vixen lay where he laid her, and went +on screaming. By and by her screaming ceased, and a few moments after, +the handle of the door was tried. Richard took no notice. Then came a +peremptory knock. Richard called out, “Who's there?” but no answer came +except a repetition of the knock, to which he paid no heed. The knock +was twice repeated, but Richard went on with his work, and gave no sign. +Suddenly another door, which he had not thought of securing, burst open, +and in sailed Miss Malliver, the governess, tall and slight, with the +dignity she put on for her inferiors, to whom she was as insolent as to +those above her she was cringing. True superiority she was incapable of +perceiving; real inferiority would have been hard to find. + +“Man!” she exclaimed, the moment her wrath would allow her to speak, +“what do you mean by your insolence?” + +“If you allude to my putting the child out of the room,” answered +Richard, “I mean that she is rude, and that I will not be annoyed with +her!” + +“You shall be turned out of the house!” + +“In the meantime,” rejoined Richard, who had a not unnatural repugnance +to Miss Malliver, and was now thoroughly angry, “I will turn you too out +of the room, and for the same reason.” + +Richard felt, with every true gentleman, that the workman has a claim to +politeness as real as that of any gentleman. The man who cannot see it +is a cad. + +“I dare you!” cried Miss Malliver, giving the rein to her innate +coarseness. + +Before he blames Richard, my reader must think how he might himself +have behaved, had he been brought up among the people. I would have +him reflect also that the woman who presumes on her sex, undermines its +claim. Richard laid the tool he was using quietly aside, and approached +her deliberately. Trusting, like king Claudius, in the divinity that +hedged her, and not believing he would presume to touch her, the woman +kept her ground defiantly until his hands were on the point of seizing +her. Then she uttered a shriek, and fled. Richard closed the door behind +her, made it also fast, and returned to his work. + +But he was not to be left in peace. Another hand came to the door, and +a voice demanding entrance followed the foiled attempt to open it. He +recognized the voice as lady Ann's, and made haste to admit her. But her +ladyship stood motionless on the door-mat, erect and cool. Anger itself +could not warm her, for that she was angry was plain only from the +steely sparkle in her grey eyes. + +“You forget yourself! You must leave the house!” she said. + +“I have done nothing, my lady,” answered Richard, “but what it was +necessary to do. I did not hurt the child in the least.” + +“That is not the point. You must leave the house.” + +“I should at once obey you, my lady,” rejoined Richard, “but I am not at +liberty to do so. Sir Wilton has the command of my time till the month +of May. I am bound to be at his orders, whether I choose or not, except +he tell me to go.” + +Lady Ann stood speechless, and stared at him with her icicle-eyes. +Richard turned away to his work. Lady Ann entered, and shut the door +behind her. Richard would have had to search long to discover the cause +of her peculiar behaviour. It was this: in his anger, he had flashed +on her a look which she knew but could not identify, and which somehow +frightened her. She must shape and identify the reminiscence! Familiar +enough with the expression of her husband's face when he was out of +temper, she had yet failed to identify with it that look on the face +of his son. Had she known Richard's mother, she would probably have +recognized him at once; for there was more of her as well as of his +father in his expression when he was angry: there must have been a good +many wrathful passages between the two! In the face of their child the +expression of the mother so modified that of the father, that lady Ann +could not isolate and verify it. She must therefore go on talking +to him, keeping to the point, but not pushing it so as to bring the +interview to an end too speedily for her purpose! + +“Mr.----,--I don't know your name,” she resumed, “--no respectable house +could harbour such behaviour. I grant sir Wilton is partly to blame, for +he ought not to have allowed the library to be turned into a workshop. +That however makes no difference. This kind of thing cannot continue!” + +Richard went on with his work, and made no reply. Lady Ann looked in +vain for a revival of the expression that had struck her. For a +moment she thought of summoning Miss Malliver to do what she would +not condescend to do herself, namely, enrage him, that she might have +another chance with the suggested likeness; but something warned her not +to risk--she did not know what. At the same time the resemblance might +be to no person at all, but to some animal, or even perhaps, some piece +of furniture or china! + +“You must not imagine yourself of importance in the house,” she resumed, +“because a friend of the family happens to be interested in the kind of +thing you do--very neatly, I allow, but--” + +She stopped short. At this allusion to Barbara, Richard's rage boiled up +with the swelling heave in a full caldron on a great furnace. Lady Ann +turned pale, pale even for her, murmured something inaudible, put her +hand to her forehead, and left the room. + +Richard's wrath fell. He thought with himself, “I have frightened her! +Perhaps they will leave me alone now!” He closed the door she had left +open behind her, unlocked the other, and fell once more to his work. + +For the time the disturbance was over. When Miss Malliver and Vixen, +lingering near, saw lady Ann walk past, holding her hand to her +forehead, they also turned pale with fear: what a terrible man he must +be who had silenced my lady in her own house, and had his own way with +her! Vixen dared not go near him again for a long time. + +But lady Ann's perturbation did not last. She said to herself that she +was a fool to imagine such an absurdity. She remembered to have heard, +though at the time it had no interest for her, that the bookbinder had +relatives in the neighbourhood. Such a likeness might meet her at any +turn: the kind of thing was of constant occurrence about estates! It +improved the breed of the lower orders, and was no business of hers! A +child had certainly been lost, with a claim to the succession; but was +she therefore to be appalled at every resemblance to her husband that +happened to turn up! As to that particular child, she would not believe +that he was alive! He could not be! That, after so many years, she, an +earl's daughter, would have to give way to a woman lower than a peasant, +was preposterous! + +It must be remembered that she knew nothing of the relation of the nurse +to the child she had stolen, knew of no source whence light could fall +upon their disappearance. Old Simon himself knew nothing of the affair +till years after the feeble search for the child had ceased. Lady +Ann had a strong hope that his birth had not been registered: she had +searched for it--with what object I will not speculate, but had not +found it. She was capable of a good deal in some directions, for she +came of as low a breed as her husband, with more cunning, and less open +defiance in it; there was not much she would have blenched at, with +society on her side, and a good chance of foiling in safety the low-born +woman who had “popped” her child “in between the” heritage “and” her +“hopes.” It might be wrong, but it would be for the sake of right! Ought +not imposture to be frustrated, however legalized? Would it not be both +intrusion and imposture for a man of low origin to possess the ancient +lands of Mortgrange, ousting a child of her family, born of her person, +and bred in the brightest beams of the sun social? + +I can well imagine her coming to reason thus. For the present, +unnecessary as she was determined to think it, she yet resolved to do +all that was left her to do: she would watch; and while she watched, +would take care that the young man was subjected to no annoyance, lest +in his wrath his countenance should suggest to another, as to herself, +the question of his origin! + +Thus it came that Richard heard nothing more of his threatened expulsion +from Mortgrange. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. _BARBARA'S DUTY_. + +The same afternoon appeared Barbara--as none knew when she might not +appear--before the front windows of the house, perched upon her huge yet +gracious Miss Brown. Arthur was in general upon the outlook for her, but +to-day he was not, being more vexed with her than usual for withholding +the encouragement he desired, and indeed imagined he deserved--not +exactly from vanity, yet no less from an overweening sense of his own +worth. + +It is an odd delusion to which young men are subject, that, because they +admire, perhaps even love a woman, they have a claim on her love. Arthur +was confident that he loved Barbara as never man had loved, as never +woman had desired to be loved, and counted it not merely unjust but +cruel of her to show him no kindness that savoured of like attraction. +He did not know or suspect that a fortnight of the London season would +go far to make him forget her. He was not a bad sort of fellow, had no +vice, was neither snob nor cad; his worst fault was pride in himself +because of his family--pride in everything he had been born to, and in a +good deal he fancied he had been born to, in which his having was small +enough. He was not jealous of Barbara's pleasure in Richard's company. +The slightest probe of such a feeling toward a man so infinitely beneath +him, he would have felt degrading. To think of the two together would +have been to insult both Barbara and himself; to think of himself and +the bookbinder for one briefest moment of comparison, would have been to +insult all the Lestranges that ever lived. Tuke had no _raison d'être_ +but work for the library that would one day be Arthur's, and by its +excellence add to the honour of Mortgrange! He forgot that Richard had +opened his eyes to its merit, and imagined himself the discoverer of its +value: did he not pay the man for his work? and is not what a man pays +for his own? Does not the purchaser of a patent purchase also the credit +of the invention? That the workman in the library knew as much more than +he about the insides as about the outsides of the books, gave him no +dignity in his eyes: none but a university-man at least must gain honour +by knowledge! The fact, however, did make him more friendly; and after +he got used to Richard he seldom stiffened his jelly to remind him that +their intercourse was by the sufferance of a humane spirit. Barbara's +behaviour to him had done nothing to humble him; for humiliation is at +best but a poisoned and poisonous humility. + +Little Vixen ran out to Barbara, and made herself less unpleasant +than usual: the monkey was preparing her, by what blandishment she was +mistress of, to receive a complaint against the man in the library +which would injure him in her favour. Might Vixen but see motion and +commotion, turmoil and passion around her, she did not care how it +arose, or which of the persons involved got the worse in it. She +accompanied Barbara to the stable, and as they walked back together, +gave her such an account of what had taken place, that Barbara, +distrusting the child, yet felt anxious. She knew the spirit of Richard, +knew that he would never show her ladyship the false respect a tradesman +too often shows, and feared lest he should have to leave the house. She +must give lady Ann the opportunity of saying what she might please on +the matter! + +It must be remembered that Barbara was under no pledge of secrecy to +Alice or any one; she was free to do what might seem for the best--that +is, for the good of Richard. It was the part of every neighbour to take +care of a blind man, particularly when there was special ground for +caution unknown to him. + +“I am sorry to find you so poorly, dear lady Ann,” she said, with her +quick sympathy for suffering. + +Vixen had told her that the horrid man had made her mamma quite ill; and +Barbara found her with her boudoir darkened, and a cup of green tea on a +Japanese table by the side of the couch on which she lay. + +“It is only one of my headaches, child!” returned lady Ann. “Do not let +it disturb you.” + +“I am afraid, from what Victoria tells me, that something must have +occurred to annoy you seriously!” + +“Nothing at all worth mentioning. He is an odd person, that workman of +yours!” + +“He is peculiar,” granted Barbara, doubtful of her own honesty because +of the different sense in which she used the word from that in which it +would be taken; “but I am certain he would not willingly vex any one.” + +“Children will be troublesome!” drawled her ladyship. + +“Particularly Victoria,” returned Barbara. “Mr. Tuke cannot bear to have +his work put in jeopardy!” + +“Very excusable in him.” + +Barbara was surprised at her consideration, and thought she must somehow +be pleased with Richard. + +“It would astonish you to hear him talk sometimes,” she said. “There +is something remarkable about the young man. He must have a history +somewhere!” + +She had been thinking whether it was fair to sir Wilton and his family +to conceal the momentous fact she alone of their friends knew: were they +not those, next to Richard himself, most concerned in it? Should lady +Ann be allowed to go on regarding the property as the inheritance of her +son, when at any instant it might be swept from his hold? Had they not a +right to some preparation for the change? If there was another son, +and he the heir, ought she not at least to know that there was such a +person? She had resolved, that very morning, to give lady Ann a hint of +the danger to which she was exposed. + +But there was another reflection, more potent yet, that urged Barbara to +speak. Since learning Alice's secret, she had found herself more swiftly +drawn toward Richard, nor could she escape the thought that he might one +day ask her to be his wife: it would be painful then to know that she +had made progress in his regard by being imagined his superior, when she +knew she was not! Incapable of laying a snare, was she not submitting to +the advantage of an ignorance? The misconception she was thus risking +in the future, had already often prevented her from going to Mortgrange. +Richard, she was certain, knew her better than ever to misjudge her, but +she shrank from the suspicion of any one that she had hidden what +she knew for the sake of securing Richard's preference before their +relations were altered--when, on a level with the choice of society, he +might well think differently of her. + +Barbara was one of those to whom concealment is a positive pain. She had +a natural hatred, most healthy and Christian, to all secrets as such; +and to take any advantage of one would have seemed to her a loathsome +thing. She constantly wanted to say all that was in her, and when she +must not, she suffered. + +“He may have good blood in him on one side,” suggested lady Ann. “He +was rude to me, but I dare say it was the child's fault. He seems +intelligent!” + +“He is more than intelligent. I suspect him of being a genius.” + +“I should have thought him a tradesman all over!” + +“But wouldn't genius by and by make a gentleman of him?” + +“Not in the least. It might make him grow to look like one.” + +“Isn't that the same? Isn't it all in the look?” + +“By no means. A man must _be_ a gentleman or he is nothing! A gentleman +would rather not have been born than not be a gentleman!” said lady Ann. + +She spoke to an ignorant person from the colonies, where they could not +be supposed to understand such things, and never suspected the danger +she and her false importance were in with the little colonial girl. + +“But if his parents were gentlefolk?” suggested Barbara. + +“Birth predetermines style, both in body and mind, I grant,” said +lady Ann; “education and society must do their parts to make any man a +gentleman; and where all has been done, I must confess to having seen +remarkable failures. Bad blood must of course have got in somehow.” + +“I wish I knew what makes a gentleman!” sighed Barbara. “I have all my +life been trying to understand the thing.--Tell me, lady Ann--to be a +gentleman, must a man be a good man?” + +“I am sorry to say,” she answered, “it is not in the least necessary.” + +“Then a gentleman may do bad things, and be a gentleman still?” + +“Yes--that is, _some_ bad things.” + +“Do you mean--not _many_ bad things?” + +“No; I mean certain kinds of bad things.” + +“Such as cheating at cards?” + +“No. If he were found doing that, he would be expelled from any club in +London.” + +“May he tell lies, then?” + +“Certainly not! It is a very ungentlemanly thing to tell lies.” + +“Then, if a man tells a lie, he is not a gentleman?” + +“I do not say that; I say that to tell lies is ungentlemanly?” + +“Does that mean that he may tell _some_ lies, and yet be a gentleman?” + +Lady Ann was afraid to go on. She saw that to go on answering the girl +from the colonies, with her troublesome freedom of thought and question, +might land her in a bog of contradictions. + +“How many lies may a gentleman tell in a day?” pursued the +straight-going Barbara. + +“Not any,” answered lady Ann. + +“Does the same rule hold for ladies?” + +“Y--e--s----I should say so,” replied her ladyship--with hesitation, for +she suspected being slowly driven into some snare. She knew she was not +careful enough to speak the truth--so much she confessed to herself, +the fact being that, to serve any purpose she thought worth gaining, she +would lie without a scruple--taking care, however, to keep the lie as +like the truth as consisted with success, in order that, if she were +found out, it might seem she had mistaken. + +Barbara noted the uncertainty of the sound her ladyship's trumpet +gave, and began to be assured that the laws of society were no firm +stepping-stones, and that society itself was a morass, where one must +spend her life in jumping from hump to hump, or be swallowed up. + +She had been wondering how far, if Richard proved heir to a baronetcy, +his education and manners would decree him no gentleman; but it was +useless to seek light from lady Ann. As they talked, however, the +feeling came and grew upon her, that she was not herself acting like +a lady, in going so much to her house, and being received by her as a +friend, when all the time she knew something she did not know, something +it was important for her to know, something she had a right and a claim +to know. She would herself hate to live on what was not her own, as lady +Ann would be left to do when sir Wilton died, if the truth about Richard +remained undisclosed! It was very unfair to leave them unwarned for this +reason besides, that so the fact might at last find them, for lack of +preparation, without resource! + +“I want to talk to you about something, lady Ann,” she said. “You can't +but know that a son of sir Wilton's was stolen when he was a baby, and +never found!” + +It was the first time for many years that lady Ann had heard the thing +alluded to except once or twice by her husband. Her heart seemed to make +a somersault, but not a visible muscle moved. What could the girl be +hinting at? Were there reports about? She must let her talk!--the more +freely the better! + +“Every one knows that!” she answered. “It is but too true. It happened +after my marriage. I was in the house at the time.--What of it, child? +There can be little hope of his turning up now--after twenty years!” + +“I believe he has turned up. I believe I know him.” + +Lady Ann jumped to the most natural, most mistaken conclusion. + +“It's the bookbinder!” she said to herself. “He has been telling her +a pack of lies! His being in the house is part of the plot. It must be +nipped in the bud! If it be no lie, if he be the very man, it must be +nipped all the same! Good heavens! if Arthur should _not_ marry her--or +someone--before it is known!” + +“It may be so,” she answered quietly, “but it hardly interests me. I +don't like talking of such things to a girl, but innocence cannot always +be spared in this wicked world. The child you speak of was born in this +house, and stolen out of it; but his mother was a low woman; she was not +the wife of sir Wilton.” + +“Everybody believed her his wife!” faltered Barbara. + +“Very possibly! Very likely! She may even have thought so herself! Such +people are so ignorant!” said lady Ann with the utmost coolness. “He may +even have married her after the child was born for anything I know.” + +“Sir Wilton must have made her believe she was his wife!” cried Barbara, +her blood rising at the thought of such a wrong done to Richard's +mother. + +“Possibly,” admitted lady Ann with a smile. + +“Then a baronet may tell lies, though a gentleman may not!” said +Barbara, as if speaking to herself. + +Lady Ann was not indignant. She had hesitated to say a lady might lie, +but did not hesitate to lie the moment the temptation came, nor for that +would doubt herself a lady! She knew perfectly that the woman was the +wife of her husband as much as she herself was, and that she died giving +birth to the heir. She had no hope that any lie she could tell would +keep that child out of the property if he were alive and her husband +wished him to have it; but a lie well told to Barbara might help to keep +her for Arthur. + +“Gentlemen think they _may_ tell lies to women!” she returned with +calmness, and just a tinge of regret. + +“How are they gentlemen then?” cried Barbara; “or where is the good of +being a gentleman? Is it that he knows better how to lie to a woman? A +knight used to be every woman's castle of refuge; a gentleman now, it +seems, is a pitfall in the bush!” + +“It is a matter they settle among themselves,” answered lady Ann, +confused between her desire to appear moral, and to gain her lie credit. + +“I think I shall not call myself a lady!” said Barbara, after a moment's +silence. “I prefer being a woman! I wonder whether in heaven they say a +_woman_ or a _lady!_” + +“I suppose they are all sorts there as well as here,” answered lady Ann. + +“How will the ladies do without gentlemen?” suggested Barbara. + +“Why without gentlemen? There will be as many surely of the one sex as +of the other!” + +“No,” said Barbara, “that cannot be! Gentlemen tell lies, and I am sure +no lie is told in heaven!” + +“All gentlemen do not tell lies!” returned lady Ann, herself at the +moment full of lying. + +“But all gentlemen _may_ lie!” persisted Barbara, “so there can be no +gentlemen in heaven.” + +“I am sorry I had to mention the thing,” returned lady Ann, “but I was +afraid your sweet romantic nature might cherish an interest where was +nothing on which to ground it. Of course I know whence the report you +allude to comes! _Any_ man, bookbinder or blacksmith, may put in a +claim. He will find plenty to back him. They will very likely get up +a bubble-company, for speculation on his chance! His own class will be +sure to take his part! Now that those that ought to know better have +taught them to combine, the lower orders stick at nothing to annoy their +superiors! But, thank heaven, the estate is _not_ entailed!” + +“If you imagine Mr. Tuke told me he was heir to Mortgrange, lady Ann, +you are mistaken. He does not know himself that he is even supposed to +be.” + +“Are you sure of that? Who then told you? Is it likely his friends have +got him into the house, under the eye of his pretended father, and he +himself know nothing of the manoeuvre?” + +“How do you know it was he I meant, lady Ann?” + +“You told me so yourself.” + +“No; that I did not! I _know_ I didn't, lady Ann! What made you fix on +him?” + +Lady Ann saw she had committed herself. + +“If you did not tell me,” she rejoined, “your peculiar behaviour to the +man must have led me to the conclusion!” + +“I have never concealed my interest in Mr. Tuke, but--” + +“You certainly have not!” interrupted her ladyship, who both suffered in +temper and lost in prudence from annoyance at her own blunder. + +“Pray, hear me out, lady Ann. What I want to say is, that my friendship +for Mr. Tuke had begun long before I learned the fact concerning which I +thought I ought to warn you.” + +“Friendship!--ah, well!--scarcely decorous!--but as to what you call +_fact_, I would counsel a little caution. I repeat that, if the man +be the son of that woman, which may be difficult to prove, it is of +no consequence to any one; sir Wilton was never married to his +mother--_properly_ married, I mean. I am sorry he should have been born +out of wedlock--it is anything but proper; at the same time I cannot be +sorry that he will never come between my Arthur and the succession.” + +Here lady Ann saw a sudden radiance light up the face of Barbara, and +change its expression, from that of a lady rightfully angry and a little +scornful, to that of a child-angel. Entirely concerned hitherto with +Richard's loss and pain, if what lady Ann said should be true, it now +first occurred to her what she herself would gain if indeed he was not +the heir: no one could think she had been his friend because he +was going to be a rich man! If he was the wronged man her ladyship +represented him--and her ladyship ought to know--she might behave to +him as she pleased without suspicion of low motive! Little she knew what +motives such persons as lady Ann were capable of attributing--as little +how incapable they were of understanding any generous motive! + +Barbara had an insuperable, a divine love of justice. She would have +scorned the thought of forsaking a friend because the very mode of his +earthly being was an ante-natal wrong to him. The righteousness that +makes a man visit the sins of a father upon his children, is the +righteousness of a devil, not the righteousness of God. When God visits +the sins of a father on his children, it is to deliver the child from +his own sins through yielding to inherited temptation. Barbara rejoiced +that she was free to approach Richard, and make some amends to him for +the ass-judgment of the world. I do not know that she said to herself, +“Now I may love him as I please!” but her thought went in that +direction. + +It did not take lady Ann long to interpret the glow on Barbara's face +to her own satisfaction. The report she had heard and believed, had kept +Barbara back from encouraging Arthur, and made her pursue her unpleasant +intimacy with the bookbinder! the sudden change on her countenance +indicated the relief of finding that Arthur, and not this man, was +indeed the heir! How could she but prefer her Arthur to a man smelling +of leather and glue, a man without the manners or education of a +gentleman! He might know a few things that gentlemen did not care to +know, but even those he got only out of books! He could not do one of +the many things her Arthur did! He could neither ride, nor shoot, nor +dress, nor dance! He was tall, but he was clumsy! No doubt he was a sort +of vulgar-handsome, but when out of temper, was ugly enough! + +That lady Ann condescended to such comparison, was enough to show that +she believed the story at least half. The girl remaining silent. + +“You will oblige me, dear Barbara,” she said, “by not alluding to this +report! It might raise doubt where it could not do serious harm!” + +“There are others who not only know but believe it,” answered Barbara. + +“Who are they?” + +“I do not feel at liberty to tell their names. I thought you had a right +to know what was said, but I have no right to mention where I heard it.” + +Lady Ann grew thoughtful again, and as she thought grew convinced that +Barbara had not spoken the truth, and that it was Richard who had told +her: it is so easy for those who lie to believe that another is lying! +It is impossible indeed for such to imagine that another, with what they +would count strong reason for lying, would not lie. Gain is the crucial +question for vile souls of any rank. She believed also, for they that +lie doom themselves to believe lies as well as disbelieve truths, that +Richard had got into the house in order to learn things that might serve +in the establishing of his claim. + +“It will be much better you should keep silent concerning the report,” + she said. “I do not want the question stirred. If the young man, any +young man, I mean, should claim the heirship, we must meet the thing as +it ought to be met; till then, promise me you will be silent.” + +She would fain have time to think, for she feared in some way +compromising herself. And in any case, the longer the crisis could be +postponed, the better for her prospects in the issue! + +“I will not promise anything,” answered Barbara. “I dread promising.” + +“Why?” asked lady Ann, raising her eyebrows. + +“Because promises have to be kept, and that is sometimes very difficult; +and because sometimes you find you ought not to have made them, and yet +you must keep them. It is a horrid thing to have to keep a promise you +don't like keeping, especially if it hurts anybody.” + +“But if you ought to make the promise?” suggested lady Ann. + +“Then you must make it. But where there is no _ought_, I think it wrong +to bind yourself. What right have you, when you don't know what may +be wanted of you, to tie your own hands and feet? There may come an +earthquake or a fire!” + +“Does friendship demand nothing? You are our guest!” + +It was not in lying only that lady Ann was not a lady. + +“One's friends may have conflicting interests!” said Barbara. + +Lady Ann was convinced that Richard was at the root of the affair, and +she hated him. What if he _were_ the heir, and it could be proved! The +thought was sickening. It was with the utmost strain that she kept up +her apparent indifference before the mocking imp honest Barbara seemed +to her. For heaven is the devil's hell, and the true are the devils of +it. How was she to assure herself concerning the fellow? how discover +what he was, what he knew, and how much he could prove? She could not +even think, with that little savage sitting there, staring out of her +wide eyes! + +“My sweet Barbara,” she said, “I am so much obliged to you for letting +me know! I will not ask any promise from you. Only you must not +heedlessly bring trouble upon us. If the thing were talked about, some +unprincipled lawyer would be sure to take it up, and there would be +another claimant-case, with the people in a hubbub, and thousands of +ignorant honest folk duped of their money to enrich the rascality. I +heard a distinguished judge once say, that, even if the claimant _were_ +the real sir Roger, he had no right to the property, having so long +neglected the duties of it as to make it impossible to be certain of his +identity. Such people put the country to enormous expense, and are never +of any service to it. It is a wrong to all classes when a man without +education succeeds to property. For one thing he will always side with +the tenants against the land. And what service can any such man render +his country in parliament? Without a suitable training there can be no +genuine right.” + +She was on the point of adding--“And then are the hopes and services and +just expectations of a lifetime to go for nothing?” but checked herself +and was silent. + +To all this Barbara had been paying little heed. She was revolving +whether she ought to tell Richard what she had just heard. Neither +then nor as she rode home, however, could she come to a conclusion. If +Richard was not the heir, why should she trouble him? But he might be +the heir, and what then? She must seek counsel! But of whom? Not of her +mother! As certainly not of her father! She had no ground for trusting +the judgment of either. + +Having got rid of Miss Brown, she walked to the parsonage. + +But she did not find there such a readiness to give advice as she had +expected. + +“The thing is not my business,” said Wingfold. + +“Not!” returned the impetuous Barbara. “I thought you were so much +interested in the young man! He told me the other day that he had +seen you again, and had a long talk with you, and that you thought +the popular idea of the inspiration of the scriptures the greatest +nonsense!” + +“Did he tell you that I said it was much nearer the truth after all than +the fancy that the Bible had no claim beyond any other book?” + +“Yes, he did.” + +“That's all right!--Tell me then, Miss Wylder: are you interested in the +young man because he is possibly heir to a baronetcy?” + +“Certainly not!” answered Barbara with indignation. + +“Then why should I be?” pursued the parson. “What is it to me? I am not +a county-magistrate even!” + +“I cannot understand you, Mr. Wingfold!” protested Barbara, “You say you +are there not for yourself but for the people, yet you will not move to +see right done!” + +“I would move a long way to see that Mr. Tuke cared to do right: that is +my business. It is not much to me, and nothing to my business, whether +Mr. Tuke be rich or poor, a baronet or a bookbinder; it is everything to +me whether Mr. Tuke will be an honest fellow or not.” + +“But if he should prove to have a right to the property?” + +“Then he ought to have the property. But it is not my business to +discover or to enforce the right. My business is to help the young man +to make little of the matter, whether he find himself the lawful heir, +or a much injured man through his deceived mother.--Tell me whose +servant I am.” + +“You are the servant of Jesus Christ.” + +“--Who said the servant must be as his master.--Do you remember how he +did when a man came asking him to see justice done between him and his +brother?--He said, 'Man, who made me a judge and a divider over you? +Take heed and beware of covetousness.'--It may be _your_ business to see +about it; I don't know; I scarcely think it is. My advice would be +to keep quiet yet a while, and see what will come. There appears no +occasion for hurry. The universe does not hang on the question of +Richard's rights. Will it be much whether your friend go into the other +world as late heir, or even late owner of Mortgrange, or as the son of +Tuke, the bookbinder? Will the dead be moved from beneath to meet the +young baronet at his coming? Will the bookbinder go out into dry places, +seeking rest and finding none?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. _THE PARSON'S COUNSEL_. + +It was a happy thing for both Richard and Barbara, that Barbara was now +under another influence besides Richard's. The more she saw of Mr. and +Mrs. Wingfold, the more she felt that she had come into a region of +reality and life. Both of them understood what a rare creature she was, +and spoke as freely before her as if she had been a sister of their own +age and standing. Barbara on her side knew no restraint with them, but +spoke in like freedom, both of her past life, and the present state +of things at home--which was indeed no secret, being manifest to the +servants, and therefore known to all the county, in forms more or less +correct, as it had been to all the colony before they left it. She +talked almost as freely of Richard, and of the great desire she had to +get him to believe in God. + +“It was a dangerous relation between two such young people!” some of my +readers will remark.--Yes, I answer--dangerous, as every true thing +is dangerous to him or her who is not true; as every good thing is +dangerous to him or her who is not good. Nothing is so dangerous as +religious sentiment without truth in the inward parts. Certain attempts +at what is called conversion, are but writhings of the passion of +self-recommendation; gapings of the greed of power over others; +swellings of the ambition to propagate one's own creed, and proselytize +victoriously; hungerings to see self reflected in another convinced. In +such efforts lie dangers as vulgar as the minds that make them, and love +the excitement of them. But genuine love is far beyond such grovelling +delights; and the peril of such a relation is in inverse proportion to +the reality of those concerned. + +Barbara was one who, so far as human eyes could see, had never required +conversion. She had but to go on, recognize, and do. She turned to +the light by a holy will as well as holy instinct. She needed much +instruction, and might yet have fierce battles to fight, but to convert +such as Barbara must be to turn them the wrong way; for the whole +energy of her being was in the direction of what is right--that is, +righteousness. She needed but to be told a good thing--I do not say +_told that a thing was good_--and at once she received it--that is, +obeyed it, the _only_ way of receiving a truth. She did the thing +immediately demanded upon every reception of light, every expansion of +true knowledge. She was essentially _of_ the truth; and therefore, when +she came into relation with a soul such as Wingfold, a soul so much more +developed than herself, so much farther advanced in the knowledge of +realities as having come through difficulties unknown and indeed at +present unknowable to Barbara, she met one of her own house, and her +life was fed from his, and began to grow faster. For he taught her to +know the eternal man who bore witness to his father in the face of his +perverse children, to know that his heart was the heart of a child in +truth and love, and the heart of a God in courage and patience; and +Barbara became his slave for very love, his blessed child, the inheritor +of his universe. Happily her life had not been loaded to the ground with +the degrading doctrines of those that cower before a God whose justice +may well be satisfied with the blood of the innocent, seeing it consists +but in the punishing of the guilty. She had indeed heard nothing of that +brood of lies until the unbelieving Richard--ah, not far from believing +he who but rejected such a God!--gave her to know that such things were +believed. From the whole swarm she was protected--shame that it should +have to be said!--by pure lack of what is generally regarded as _a +religious education_, such being the mother of more tears and madness +in humble souls, and more presumption in the proud and selfish, than +perhaps any other influence out of whose darkness God brings light. +Neither ascetic nor mystic nor doctrinist of any sort, caring nothing +for church or chapel, of observance of any kind as observance, she +believed in God, and was now ready to die for Jesus Christ, in the +eternal gladness that there was such a person as God and such a person +as Jesus Christ. Their being was to her the full and only pledge of +every bliss, every childlike delight. She believed in the God of the +whole earth, not in a puritanical God. She never imagined it could be +wrong to dance: merry almost in her very nature, she now held it a duty +to be glad. Fond of sweets, she would have thought it wrong to refuse +what God meant her to like; but she had far more pleasure in giving than +in receiving them. She got into a little habit of thanking God for Miss +Brown every time she felt herself on her back. She saw, the moment she +heard it, that whatever was not of faith was sin: “The idea,” she said, +“of taking a thing from God without thinking love back to him for it!” + She shuddered at the thought of unnecessarily hurting, yet would punish +sharply. She would whip her dog when he deserved it, but sat up all +night with him once when he was ill. She understood something of the +ways of God with men. + +Wingfold never sought to moderate her ardour for the good of her +workman-friend; he only sought to strengthen her in the truth. + +One day, when they were all three sitting together in the twilight +before the lamp was lit--for Helen Wingfold was one of those happy women +able to let their hands lie in their laps--he said to his pupil, + +“Now, pray, Miss Wylder, don't try by argument to convince the young man +of anything. That were no good, even if you succeeded. Opinion is all +that can result from argument, and his opinion concerning God, even if +you got it set right, would not be knowledge of God, and would be worth +nothing; while, if a man knows God, his opinion is either right, or on +the nearest way to be right. The notion in Richard's brain of the God he +denies, is but another form of the Moloch of the Ammonites. There never +was, and never could be such a God. He in whom I believe is the God that +says, 'This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.' It is as if +he said--'Look at that man: I am just such! No other likeness of me is a +true likeness. Heed my son: heed nobody else. Know him and you know me, +and then we are one for ever.' Talk to Richard of the God you love, the +beautiful, the strong, the true, the patient, the forgiving, the loving; +the one childlike, eternal power and Godhead, who would die himself and +kill you rather than have you false and mean and selfish. Let him feel +God through your enthusiasm for him. You can't prove to him that there +is any God. A God that could be proved, would not be worth proving. Make +his thoughts dwell on such a God as he must feel would be worth having. +Wake the notion of a God such as will draw him to wish there were such a +God. There are many religious people who will tell you there is no such +God as I mean; but God will love you for believing that he is as +good and true as you can think. Throw the notions of any who tell you +otherwise to the winds of hell, 'God is just!' said a carping theologian +to me the other day. 'Yes,' I answered, 'and he cannot be pleased that +you should call that justice which is injustice, and attribute it +to him!' There are many who must die in ignorance of their Father in +heaven, because they will not of their own selves judge what is right. +Such never get beyond the weak and beggarly elements. Set in Richard's +eye a God worth believing in, a God like the son of God, and he will go +and look if haply such a God may be found; he will call upon him, and +the God who is will hear and answer him. What good would it be, what +could it bring but the more condemnation, that a man should be sure +there was a God, if he did not cry to him? But although a man may +never doubt and never cry, I cannot imagine any man sure there is a God +without his first having cried to him. God is God to us not that we may +say _he is_, but _that we may know him_; and when we know him, then we +are with him, at home, at the heart of the universe, the heirs of all +things. All this is foolishness, I know, to the dull soul that cares +only for the things that admit of being proved. The unprovable mystery +out of which come the things provable, has for them no interest, they +say, because it is unprovable: they take for granted that therefore it +is unknowable. Would they be content it should be unknowable if things +were all as they should be within them? When the eyes of those who have +made themselves at home in the world of the senses and care for no other +are opened, I imagine them saying--'Yes, He was after all; but none the +less were you fools to believe in him, for you had no proof!' Then I +seem to hear the children laugh and say, 'We had himself, and did not +want it.' That the unprovable is necessarily the unknowable, a thousand +beliefs deny. 'You cannot prove to me that you have a father!' says the +blind sage, reasoning with the little child. 'Why should I prove it?' +answers the child. 'I am sitting on his knee! If I could prove it, that +would not make you see him; that would not make you happy like me! You +do not care about my father, or you would not stand there disputing; you +would feel about until you found him!' If a thing be true in itself, it +is not capable of proof; and that man is in the higher condition who +is able to believe it. In proportion as a man is a fool he is unable to +believe what in itself is true. If intellect be the highest power, +then the men of proof are the wisest; if there be something deeper than +intellect, causing and including it, if there be a creative power of +which our intellect is but a faint reflex, then the child of that power, +the one who acknowledges and loves and obeys that power, will be the +one to understand it. If a man say, 'I cannot believe; I was not made to +believe what I could not prove;' I reply, Do you really say, 'It is not +true,' because you have no proof? Ask yourself whether you do not turn +from the idea because you prefer it should not be true. You accept a +thousand things without proof, and a thousand things may be perfectly +true, and have no proof. But if you cannot be sure, why therefore do +you turn away? Is the thing assuredly false? Then you ought of course +to turn away. Can you prove it false? You cannot. Again, why do you turn +away? That a thing is not assuredly true, cannot be reason for turning +from it, else farewell to all theory and all scientific research! Is the +thing less good, less desirable, less worth believing, in itself, that +you cannot thus satisfy yourself concerning it? The very chance that +_such_ a thing may be true, the very fact that it cannot be disproved, +is large reason for an honest, and continuous, and unending search. +Do you hold any door in your nature open for the possibility of a God +having a claim on you? The truth is, as I hinted before, that you are +not drawn to the idea, do not like it; and it is therefore you turn +away, and not because you have no proof.--If the man then shifted +his ground and said, 'He seemed to me not a good being, and I said +therefore, he _cannot_ exist;' I should reply, There you were right. But +a thing that cannot be, cannot render impossible a thing that can +be--a thing against whose existence there are no such arguments as have +rightly shown that the other cannot be. In right logical balance you +must admit that a creative being who is good _may_ exist. But the final +question is always this: Have you acted, or rather, are you acting +according to the conscience which is the one guide to truth, to all that +is!” + +“But,” said Barbara, “perhaps the man would say that we see such +suffering in the world, that the being who made it, if there be one, +cannot possibly be both strong and good, otherwise he would not allow +it.” + +“Say then, that he might be both strong and good, and have some reason +for allowing, or even causing it, which those who suffer will themselves +one day justify, ready for the sake of it to go through all the +suffering again. Less than that would not satisfy me. If he say, 'What +reason could justify the infliction of such suffering?' then tell him +what I am now going to tell you. + +“A year ago,” continued Wingfold, “my little boy displeased me horribly. +I will not tell you what he did: when the boy grows up, he will find it +as impossible to understand how he could have done the thing, as I +find it now. People say, 'Children will be children!' but I see little +consolation in that. Children must be children, and ought to be good +children. They are made to be good children, just as much as men are +made to be good men. All I will say is, that he did a mean thing. You +see his mother can hardly keep from crying now at the thought of it. +Thank God, she was of one mind with me. I took him, and, bent on making +him feel, if not how horrid the thing was in itself--for what imperfect +being can ever know the full horror of evil!--at least how horrid I +thought it, broke out in strong language. I told him I must whip him; +that I could not bear doing it, but rather than he should be a damned, +mean, contemptible little rascal, I would kill him and be hanged for it. +I dare say it sounds very improper, but--” + +“Not in the least!” cried Barbara. “_I_ like a man to curse what is bad, +and go down on his knees to what is good.” + +“Well, what do you think the little fellow said?--'Don't kill me, papa,' +he cried. 'I will be good. Don't, please, be hanged for my naughtiness! +Whip me, and that will make me good.'” + +“And then you couldn't do it?” asked Barbara anxiously. + +“I cried,” said Wingfold, and almost cried again as he said it. “I'm not +much in the habit of crying--I don't look like it, do I?--but I couldn't +help it. The child took out his little pocket-handkerchief and dried my +eyes, and then prepared himself for the whipping. And I whipped him as +I never did before, and I hope in God shall never have to do again. The +moment it was over, while my heart was like to burst, he flung his arms +round my neck and began kissing me. 'I will never make you cry again, +papa!' he said.--He has kept his word, and since then I have never +wondered at the suffering in the world. I have puzzled my metaphysical +brains to the last gasp about the origin of evil--I don't do that now, +for I seem to understand it--but, since then, I have never troubled +myself about the origin of suffering. I don't like pain a whit better +than another, and I don't bear it nearly so well as Helen, but I vex +neither my brain nor my heart as to God's sending it. I knew after +whipping my boy, that the tears the Lord wept over Jerusalem were not +wept by him only, but by the Father as well. Whoever says God cannot +suffer, I say he does not understand. God _can_ weep, and weeps more +painful tears than ours; for he is God, and we are his little ones. That +boy's trouble was over with the punishment, but my heart is sore yet. + +“It comes to this, that the suffering you see around you, hurts God more +than it hurts you, or the man upon whom it falls; but he hates things +that most men think little of, and will send any suffering upon them +rather than have them continue indifferent to them. Men may say, 'We +don't want suffering! we don't want to be good!' but God says, 'I know +my own obligations! and you shall not be contemptible wretches, if there +be any resource in the Godhead.' I know well that almost all the mothers +in my congregation would, hearing what I have just told you, call me +a cruel father. They would rather have me a weak one, loving my child +less. They would rather their child should be foul in the soul than be +made clean through suffering! I know they would! But I know also that +they do not see how ugly is evil. And that again is because they are not +clean enough themselves to value rightness above rubies! Tell the tale +your own way to your workman-friend, and may God help him to understand +it! The God who strikes, is the God whose son wept over Jerusalem.” + +“I am so glad you whipt the darling!” said Barbara, scarcely able to +speak. “I shall love him more than ever.” + +“You should see how he loves his father!” said Helen. “His father is all +his talk when we are alone together. He sees more of me than of him now, +but by and by his father will take him about with him.” + +“And then,” said Barbara, “all his talk will be of you!” + +“Yes; it is the way of the child!” + +“And of the whole family in heaven and earth,” rejoined the parson. + +Barbara rose. + +“You'll be on the watch,” said Wingfold, “for any chance for me of +serving your mother?” + +“I will,” replied Barbara. + +The next morning she got on Miss Brown, and rode to the forge, where +Simon made her always welcome. It was sunshine to his heart to see her, +he said. She knew that Richard was to be there. They left Miss Brown +in the smithy, and went for a walk together, during which Barbara was +careful to follow the parson's advice. Their talk was mostly about her +life in New Zealand. Now that she knew God more, and believed more in +him, she was more able to set forth her history. Feelings long vague had +begun to put on shapes definite and communicable. She understood herself +better, and was better able to make Richard understand her. And in +Richard, by degrees, through the sympathy of affection, was growing the +notion of a God in whom it would not be hard to believe. He ought not +to believe, and he had not believed in the supposed being hitherto +presented to him as God; now he saw the shape of a God in whom, if he +existed, he ought to believe. But he had not yet come to long that he +should exist, to desire him, or to cry out in the hope that he would +hear him. His hour was not yet come. But when the day of darkness +arrived, when he knew himself helpless, there would be in his mind +a picture of the God to whom he must cry in his trouble--a God whose +existence would then be his only need, the one desire of his soul. To +wake the sense of this eternal need, present though unrecognized under +every joy, was the final cause of every sorrow and pain against which +Richard rebelled--most naturally rebelled, knowing neither the plague +of a heart that would but could not be lord over itself, nor of a nature +hatefully imperfect and spotted, yea capable of what itself could not +but detest. + +Naturally, his manners were growing more refined from his intercourse +with the gracious, brave, sympathetic, unconventional creature, so +strong yet so gentle, so capable of indignation, so full of love. He +was gradually developing the pure humanity that lay beneath the rough +artisan. He was, in a word, becoming what in the kingdom of heaven every +man must be--a gentleman, because more than a gentleman. + +All this time Barbara was pulled two ways: for Richard's sake she would +have him heir to the baronetcy; for her own she would be rid of the +shadow of having sought the baronet in the bookbinder. But more and more +the asseveration of lady Ann gained force with her--that Richard was not +the heir. She had greatly doubted her, but now she said to herself: “She +could hardly be mistaken, and she _cannot_ have lied.” The consequence +was that she grew yet more free, more at home with Richard. She +listened to all he had to tell her, learning of him with an _abandon_ of +willingness that put him upon his honour to learn of her again. And he +did learn, as I have said, a good deal--went farther than he knew in the +way of true learning. + +They strolled together in the field behind the smithy, within sight +of the cottage, for an hour or so; then hearing from the smithy the +impatient stamping of Miss Brown, and fearing she might give the old man +trouble, hastened back. Richard brought out the mare. Barbara sprang on +a big stone by the door, and mounted without his help. She went straight +for Wylder Hall. + +As they were walking up and down the field, Arthur Lestrange passed on +foot, saw them, and went home indignant. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. _LADY ANN MEDITATES_. + +It would have been difficult for Arthur himself to say whether in his +heart rage or contempt was the stronger, when he saw the lady he loved +walking in a field, turning and returning, in close talk with the +bookbinder-fellow. Never had she so walked and talked with _him_! She +preferred the bookbinder's society to his--and made it no secret that +she did, for, although evidently desirous of having their interview +uninterrupted, they walked in full view of the high road! + +What did Barbara mean by it? He could not treat her as a child and lay +the matter before Richard! If a lady showed favour to a man, the less +worthy he was, the less could he be expected to see the unfitness of the +thing. Besides, to acknowledge thus any human relation between Richard +and either of them, would be degrading. It was scorn alone that kept +Arthur from hating Richard. For Barbara, he attributed her disregard of +propriety, and the very possibility of her being interested in such a +person, to the modes of life in the half savage country where she had +been born and reared--_educated_, he remarked to himself, he could not +say. But what did she mean by it? The worst of his torment was that +the thought, unreasonable as it was, would yet come--that Richard was +a good-looking fellow, and admiration, which in any English girl would +have been rendered impossible by his vulgarity, might have a share +in her enjoyment of his shop-talk about books. The idea was simply +disgusting! + +What was he to do? What could any one do? The girl was absolutely +uncontrolled: was it likely she would prove controllable? Would she +mind him, when she cared no more for his stately mother than for the +dairy-woman! How could such a bewitching creature so lack refinement! +The more he thought, the more inexplicable and self-contradictory her +conduct appeared. Such a jewelled-humming-bird to make friends with a +grubbing rook! The smell of the leather, not to mention the paste and +glue, would be enough for any properly sensitive girl! Universally +fascinating, why did she not correspond all through? Brought out in +London, she would be the belle of the season! If he did not secure her, +some poor duke would pounce on her! + +But again what was he to do? Must he bring scorn on himself by appearing +jealous of a tradesman, or must he let the fellow go on casting his +greasy shadow about the place? As to her being in love with him, that +was preposterous! The notion was an insult! Yet half the attention she +gave the bookbinder would be paradise to _him_! He _must_ put a stop to +it! he must send the man away! It would be a pity for the library! +It was beginning to look beautiful, and would soon have been the most +distinguished in the county: lord Chough's was nothing to it! But there +were other book-binders as good as he! And what did the library matter! +What did anything matter in such a difficulty! + +She might take offence! She would be sure to suspect why the fellow was +sent packing! She would know she had the blame of ruining the library, +and the bookbinder as well, and would never enter the house again! He +must leave the thing alone--for the present! But he would be on his +guard! Against what, he did not plainly tell himself. + +While the son was thus desiring a good riddance of the man he had +brought into the house, and to whom Barbara was so much indebted, the +mother was pondering the same thing. Should the man remain in the house +or leave it? was the question with her also;--and if leave it, on +what pretext? She was growing more and more uncomfortable at the +possibilities. The possession of the estate by one born of another +woman, and she of low origin; the subjection in which they would all be +placed to him as the head of the family--a man used to the low ways of a +trade, a man dirty and greasy, hardly in his right place at work in +the library, the grandson of a blacksmith with brawny arms and smutty +face--the ideas might well be painful to her! + +Then first the thought struck her, that it must be his grandfather's +doing that he was in the house! and there he was, at their very door, +eager to bear testimony to the bookbinder as his grandson and heir to +Mortgrange! Alas, the thing must be a fact, a horrible fact! All was +over!--But she would do battle for her rights! She would not allow that +the child was found! The thing was a conspiracy to supplant the true +heir! How ruinous were the low tastes of gentlemen! If sir Wilton had +but kept to his own rank, and made a suitable match, nothing of all this +misery would have befallen them! If her predecessor had been a lady, her +son would have been a gentleman, and there would have been nothing to +complain of! To lady Ann, her feeling had the force of a conviction, +that the son of Robina Armour could not, in the nature of things +divinely ordained, have the same rights as her son. Lady Ann's God was +the head of the English aristocracy. There was nothing selfish that lady +Ann was not capable of wishing; there was nothing selfish she might not +by degrees become capable of doing. She could not at that moment commit +murder; neither could lady Macbeth have done so when she was a girl. The +absurd falsity of her notions as to her rights, came from lack of love +to her neighbour, and consequent insensibility to his claims. At the +same time she had not keen, she had only absorbing feelings of her +rights; there was nothing _keen_ in lady Ann; neither sense nor desire, +neither hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow, neither love nor hate. +Beyond her own order, beyond indeed her own circle in that order, the +universe hardly existed. An age-long process of degeneration had been +going on in her race, and she was the result: she was well born and well +bred for feeling nothing. There is something fearful in the thought that +through the generations the body may go on perfecting, while the heart +goes on degenerating; that, while the animal beauty is growing complete +in the magic of proportion, the indescribable marvel that can even give +charm to ugliness, is as steadily vanishing. Such a woman, like Branca +d'Oria in the Inferno, is already damned, and only seems to live. Lady +Ann was indeed born capable of less than most; but had she attempted +to do the little she could, one would not have been where she was; +she would have beep toiling up the hill of truth, with a success to be +measured, like the widow's mite, by what she had not. + +All her thoughts were now occupied with the _rights_ of her son, and +through him of the family. Sir Wilton had been for some time ailing, and +when he went, they would be at the mercy of any other heir than Arthur, +just as miserably whether he were the true heir or an impostor; the one +was as bad as the other from her point of view! For the right, lady Ann +cared nothing, except to have it or to avoid it. The law of the land was +to be respected no doubt, but your own family--most of all when land was +concerned--was worthier still! + +It were better to rid the place of the bookbinder--but how? As to +whether he was the legal heir or not, she would rather remain ignorant, +only that, assured on the point, she would better understand how to deal +with his pretension! But she could not consult sir Wilton, because +she suspected him of a lingering regard for the dead wife which would +naturally influence his feeling for the live son--if live he were: no +doubt he had enjoyed the company of the low-born woman more than +hers, for she, a woman of society, knew what was right! She had reason +therefore to fear him prejudiced for any pretender! Arthur and he got on +quite as well as could be expected of father and son--their differences +never came to much; but on the other hand sir Wilton had a demoniacal +pleasure in frustrating! To make a man he disliked furious, was honey +and nuts to sir Wilton; and she knew a woman whose disappointment would +be dearer to him than that of all his enemies together! It was better +therefore that he should have no hint, and especially from her, of what +was in the air! + +Lady Ann thought herself a good woman because she never felt interest +enough to be spiteful like sir Wilton; yet, very strangely, not knowing +in herself what repentance meant, she judged him capable of doing her +the wrong of atoning to his first wife for his neglect of her, by being +good to her child! Thinking over her talk with Barbara, she could +not, after all, feel certain that Richard knew, or that he had incited +Barbara to take his part. But in any case it was better to get rid of +him! It was dangerous to have him in the house! He might be spending +his nights in trumping up evidence! At any moment he might appeal to sir +Wilton as his father! But at the worst, he would be unable to prove the +thing right off, and if her husband would but act like a man, they might +impede the attempt beyond the possibility of its success! + +One comfort was, that, she was all but confident, the child was not +already baptized when stolen from Mortgrange; neither were such as would +steal children likely to have them baptized; therefore the God who would +not allow the unbaptized to lie in his part of the cemetery, would never +favour his succession to the title and estate of Mortgrange! The fact +must have its weight with Providence!--whom lady Ann always regarded us +a good churchman: he would never take the part of one that had not +been baptized! Besides, the fellow was sure to turn out a socialist, +or anarchist, or positivist, or radical, or something worse! She would +dispute his identity to the last, and assert his imposture beyond it! +Her duty to society demanded that she should not give in! + +Suddenly she remembered the description her husband had given her of +the ugliness of the infant: this man was decidedly handsome! Then she +remembered that sir Wilton had told her of a membrane between certain of +his fingers--horrible creature: she must examine the impostor! + +Arthur was very moody at dinner: his mother feared some echo of the same +report as caused her own anxiety had reached him, and took the first +opportunity of questioning him. But neither of lady Ann's sons had +learned such faith in their mother as to tell her their troubles. Arthur +would confess to none. She in her turn was far too prudent to disclose +what was in her mind: the folly of his youth might take the turn of +an unthinking generosity! the notion of an elder brother might even be +welcome to him! + +In another generation no questions would be asked! Many estates were in +illegal possession! There was a claim superior to the legal! Theirs was +a _moral_ claim! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. _LADY ANN AND RICHARD_. + +The same afternoon, Richard was mending the torn title of a black-letter +copy of Fox's Book of Martyrs. Vixen had forgotten her former fright, +and her evil courage had returned. Opening the door of the library so +softly that Richard heard nothing, she stole up behind him, and gave +his elbow a great push just as, with the sharpest of penknives, he +was paring the edge of a piece of old paper, to patch the title. The +pen-knife slid along the bit of glass he was paring upon, and cut his +other hand. The blood spouted, and some of it fell upon the title, which +made Richard angry: it was an irremediable catastrophe, for the paper +was too weak to bear any washing. He laid hold of the child, meaning +once more to carry her from the room, and secure the door. Then first +Vixen saw what she had done, and was seized with horror--not because she +had hurt “the bear,” but because of the blood, the sight of which she +could not endure. It was a hereditary weakness on sir Wilton's side. One +of the strongest men of his family used to faint at the least glimpse of +blood. There was a tradition to account for it, not old or thin enough +to cast no shadow, therefore seldom alluded to. It was not, therefore, +an ordinary childish dismay, but a deep-seated congenital terror, that +made Vixen give one wavering scream, and drop on the floor. Richard +thought she was pretending a faint in mockery of what she had done, but +when he took her up, he saw that she was insensible. He laid her on +a couch, rang the bell, and asked the man to take the child to her +governess. The man saw blood on the child's dress, and when he reached +the schoolroom with her, informed the governess that she had had an +accident in the library. Miss Malliver, with one of her accomplished +shrieks, dispatched him to tell lady Ann. Coming to herself in a few +minutes, Vixen told a confused story of how the bear had frightened her. +Lady Ann, learning that the blood was not that of her child, came to the +conclusion that Richard had played upon her peculiarity to get rid of +her, for Vixen, incapable of truth, did not tell that she was herself +the cause of the wound whence the blood had made its appearance. Miss +Malliver, who would hardly have been sorry had Vixen's throat been cut, +rose in wrath, and would have swooped down the stair upon Richard. + +“Leave him to me, Malliver,” said lady Ann, and rising, went down the +stair. But the moment she entered the library, and saw Richard's hand +tied up in his handkerchief, she bethought herself of the happy chance +of satisfaction as to whether or not he was web-fingered: the absence of +the peculiarity would indeed prove nothing, but the presence of it would +be a warning of the worst danger: he might have had it removed, but +could not have contrived to put it there! + +“What have you done to yourself, Mr. Tuke?” she said, making a motion +to take the wounded hand, from which at the same time she shrank with +inward disgust. + +“Nothing of any consequence, my lady,” answered Richard, who had risen, +and stood before her. “I was using a very sharp knife, and it went into +my hand. I hope Miss Victoria is better?” + +“There is nothing much the matter with her,” answered her ladyship. “The +sight of blood always makes her faint.” + +“It is a horrid sight, my lady!” rejoined Richard, wondering at her +ladyship's affability, and ready to meet any kindness. “When I was at +school, I was terribly affected by it. One boy used to provoke me to +fight him, and contrive that I should make his nose bleed--after which +he could do what he liked with me. But I set myself to overcome the +weakness, and succeeded.” + +Lady Ann listened in silence, too intent on his hands to remark at the +moment how the fact he mentioned bore on the question that absorbed her. + +“Would you mind showing me the wound?” she said. “I am something of a +surgeon.” + +To her disappointment, he persisted that it was nothing. Because of +the peculiarity she would gladly have missed in them, he did not like +showing his hands. His mother had begged him not to meddle with the +oddity until she gave her consent, promising a good reason for the +request when the right time should arrive; but he was sensitive about +it--probably from having been teased because of it. His comfort was, +that a few slits of a sharp knife would make him like other people. + +Lady Ann was foiled, therefore the more eager: why should the man be so +unwilling to show his hands? + +“Your work must be very interesting!” she said. + +“I am fond of it, my lady,” he answered. “If I had a fortune left me, +I should find it hard to drop it. There is nothing like work--and +books--for enjoying life!” + +“I daresay you are right.--But go on with your work. I have heard so +much about it from Miss Wylder that I should like to see you at it.” + +“I am sorry, my lady, but I shall be fit for next to nothing for a day +or two because of this hand. I dare not attempt going on with what I am +now doing.” + +“Is it so very painful? You ought to have it seen to. I will send for +Mr. Hurst.” + +As she spoke, she turned to go to the bell. Richard had tried to +interrupt her, but she would not listen. He now assured her that it was +his work not his hand that he was thinking of; and said that, if Mr. +Lestrange had no objection, he would take a short holiday. + +“Then you would like to go home!” said her ladyship, thinking it would +be so easy then to write and tell him not to come back--if only Arthur +could be got to do it. + +“I should like to go to my grandfather's for a few days,” answered +Richard. + +This was by no means what lady Ann desired, but she did not see how to +oppose it. + +“Well, perhaps you had better go,” she said. + +“If you please, my lady,” rejoined Richard, “I must see Mr. Lestrange +first. I cannot go without his permission.” + +“I will speak to my son about it,” answered lady Ann, and went away, +feeling that Richard would be a dangerous enemy. She did not hate him: +she only regarded him as what might possibly prove an adverse force to +be encountered and frustrated because of her family, and because of the +right way of things--that those, namely, who had nothing should be kept +from getting anything. In the meantime the only thing clear was, that he +had better be got out of the neighbourhood! It was well sir Wilton had +hardly seen the young man: if there was anything about him capable of +rousing old memories, it were well it should not have the chance! Sir +Wilton was not fond of books, and it could be no great pleasure to him +to have the library set to rights; he was annoyed at being kept out of +it, for he liked to smoke his cigar there, and shuddered at the presence +of a working man except in the open air: she was certain he would feel +nowise aggrieved if the design were abandoned midway! The only person +she feared would oppose Tuke's departure, was Arthur. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. _RICHARD AND ARTHUR_. + +She went to find him, told him what had happened to the young man, and, +feeling her way, proposed that he should go to his grandfather's for +a few days. Arthur started. Send him where he and Barbara would be +constantly meeting! Must he for ever imagine them walking up and down +that field, among the dandelions and daisies! He had discovered, he +believed, all that was between them, but was not therewith satisfied: +she had found out, he said to himself, that the fellow was an infidel, +did not believe in God, or a resurrection--was so low that he did not +care to live for ever, and she was trying to convert him. Arthur would +rather he remained unconverted than that _she_ should be the means of +converting him. Nor indeed would he be much injured by having the growth +of such a faith as Arthur's prevented in him: Arthur prided himself in +showing due respect to _the Deity_ by allowing that he existed. But the +fellow was too clever by half, he said, and would be much too much for +her. Any theory wild enough would be attractive to her, who never cared +a pin-head what the rest of the world believed! She had indeed a strong +tendency to pantheism, for she expected the animals to rise again--a +most unpleasant notion! Doubtless it was she that sought his company; a +fellow like that _could_ not presume to seek hers! He was only laughing +at her all the time! What could an animal like him care about the +animals: he had not even a dog to love! He would _not_ have him go to +his grandfather's! he would a thousand times rather give up the library! +There should be no more bookbinding at Mortgrange! He would send the +books to London to him! It would be degrading to allow personal feeling +to affect his behaviour to such a fellow; he should have the work all +the same, but not at Mortgrange! + +So he answered his mother that he was rather tired of him, and thought +they had had enough of him; the work seemed likely to be spun out _ad +infinitum_, and this was a good opportunity for getting rid of him. He +was sorry, for it was the best way for the books, but he could send them +to him in London, and have them done there! The man, he understood, had +been making himself disagreeable too, and he did not want to quarrel +with him! He was a radical, and thought himself as good as anybody: it +was much best to let him go. He had at first liked him, and had perhaps +shown it more than was good for the fellow, so that he had come to +presume upon it, setting it down to some merit in himself. Happily +he had retained the right of putting an end to the engagement when he +pleased! + +This was far better than lady Ann had expected. Arthur went at once to +Richard, and speaking, as he thought, unconcernedly, told him they found +it inconvenient to have the library used as a workshop any longer, and +must make a change. + +Richard was glad to hear it, thinking he meant to give him another room, +and said he could work just as well anywhere else: he wanted only a dry +room with a fire-place! Arthur told him he had arranged for what would +be more agreeable to both parties, namely, that he should do the work at +home. It would cost more, but he was prepared for that. He might go +as soon as he pleased, and they would arrange by letter how the books +should be sent--so many at a time! + +Richard spied something more under his dismissal than the affair +with Miss Vixen; but he was too proud to ask for an explanation: +Mr. Lestrange was in the right of their compact. He felt aggrieved +notwithstanding, and was sorry to go away from the library. He would +never again have the chance of restoring such a library! He did not once +think of it from the point of gain: he could always make his living! +It was to him a genuine pleasure to cause any worthy volume look as it +ought to look; and to make a whole straggling library of books +wasted and worn, put on the complexion, uniform, and discipline of +a well-conditioned company of the host of heaven, was at least an +honourable task! For what are books, I venture to say, but an army-corps +of the lord of hosts, at whose command are troops of all natures, after +the various regions of his indwelling! Even the letter is something, +for the dry bones of books are every hour coming alive to the reader in +whose spirit is blowing the better spirit. Richard himself was one of +such, though he did not yet know there was a better spirit. Then again, +there were not a few of the books with which individually he was sorry +to part. He had also had fine opportunity for study, of which he was +making good use, and the loss of it troubled him. He had read some +books he would hardly otherwise have been able to read, and had largely +extended his acquaintance with titles. + +He was sorry too not to see more of Mr. Wingfold. He was a clergyman, +it was true, but not the least like any other clergyman he had seen! +Richard had indeed known nothing of any other clergyman out of the +pulpit; and I fear most clergymen are less human, therefore less divine, +in the pulpit than out of it! Many who out of the pulpit appear men, are +in it little better than hawkers of old garments, the worse for their +new patches. Of the forces in action for the renovation of the world, +the sale of such old clothes is one of the least potent. They do, +however, serve a little, I think, even as the rags of a Neapolitan for +the olives of Italy, as a sort of manure for the young olives of the +garden of God. + +But his far worst sorrow was leaving Miss Wylder. That was a pain, a +keen pain in his heart. For, that a woman is miles above him, as a star +is above a marsh-light, is no reason why a man should not love her. Nay, +is it not the best of reasons for loving her? The higher in soul, and +the lowlier in position he is, the more imperative and unavoidable is it +that he should love her; and the absence of any thought in the direction +of marriage leaves but the wider room for the love infinite. In a +man capable of loving in such fashion, there are no bounds to the +possibilities, no limit to the growth of love. Richard thought his +soul was full, but a live soul can never be full; it is always growing +larger, and is always being filled. + +“Like one that hath been stunned,” he went about his preparations for +departure. + +“You will go by the first train in the morning,” said Arthur, happening +to meet him in the stable-yard, whither Richard had gone to look if Miss +Brown was in her usual stall. “I have told Robert to take you and your +tools to the station in the spring-cart.” + +“Thank you, sir,” returned Richard; “I shall not require the cart. +I leave the house to-night, and shall send for my things to-morrow +morning. I have them almost ready now.” + +“You cannot go to London to-night!” + +“I am aware of that, sir.” + +“Then where are you going? I wish to know.” + +“That is my business, sir.” + +“You have no cause to show temper,” said Arthur coldly. + +“I should not have shown it, sir, had you not presumed to give me orders +after dismissing me,” answered Richard. + +“I have not dismissed you; I mean to employ you still, only in London +instead of here,” said Arthur. + +“That is a matter for fresh arrangement with my father,” rejoined +Richard, and left him. + +Arthur felt a shadow cross him--almost like fear: he had but driven +Richard to his grandfather's, and had made an enemy of him! Nor could +he feel satisfied with himself; he could not get rid of the thought +that what he had done was not quite the thing for a gentleman to do. +His trouble was not that he had wronged Richard, but that he had wronged +himself, had not acted like his ideal of himself. He did not think +of what was right, but of what befitted a gentleman. Such a man is in +danger of doing many things unbefitting a gentleman. For the measure of +a gentleman is not a man's ideal of himself. + +His uneasiness grew as day after day went by, and Barbara did not appear +at Mortgrange. He was not aware that Richard saw no more of her than +himself. He knew that he was at his grandfather's; he had himself seen +him at work at the anvil; but he did not know that the hope in which he +lingered there was vain. + +Richard waited a week, but no Barbara came to the smithy. He could not +endure the thought of going away without seeing her once more. He must +once thank her for what she had done for him! He must let her know why +he had left Mortgrange. + +He would go and say good-bye to the clergyman: from him he might hear +something of her! + +Wingfold caught sight of him approaching the house, and himself opened +the door to him. Taking him to his study, he made him sit down, and +offered him a pipe. + +“Thank you, sir; I don't smoke,” said Richard. + +“Then don't learn. You are better without it,” answered Wingfold, and +put down his own pipe. + +“I came,” said Richard, “to thank you for your kindness to me, and to +ask about Miss Wylder. Not having seen her for a long time, I was afraid +she might be ill. I am going away.” + +There was a tremor in Richard's voice, of which he was not himself +aware. Wingfold noted it, pitied the youth because of the fuel he had +stored for suffering, and admired him for his straightforwardness. + +“I am sorry to say you are not likely to see Miss Wylder,” he answered. +“Her mother is ill.” + +“I hardly thought to see her, sir. Is her mother very ill?” + +“Yes, very ill,” answered Wingfold. + +“With anything infectious?” + +“No. Her complaint is as little infectious as complaint could be; it is +just exhaustion--absolute prostration, mental and nervous. She is too +weak to think, and can't even feed herself. I fear her daughter will be +worn out waiting on her. She devotes herself to her mother with a spirit +and energy I never but once knew equalled. She never seems tired, never +out of spirits. I heard a lady say she couldn't have much feeling to +look cheerful when her mother was in such a state; but the lady was +stupid. She would wait on her own mother almost as devotedly as Miss +Wylder, but with such a lugubrious countenance that her patient might +well seek refuge from it in the grave. But it is no wonder she should +be in good spirits: it is the first time in her life, she says, that +she has been allowed to be of any use to her mother! Then she is not +suffering pain, and that makes a great difference. But more than all, +her mother has grown so tender to her, and so grateful, following her +constantly about the room with her eyes, that the girl says she feels in +a paradise of which her mother is the tutelar divinity, raying out bliss +as she lies in bed! Also her father is kinder to her mother. Little +signs of tenderness pass between them--a thing she has never known +before! How could she be other than happy!--But what is this you tell me +about going away? The library cannot be finished!” + +Wingfold had dilated on the worth of Miss Wylder, and let Richard know +of her happiness, out of genuine sympathy. He knew that, next to the +worship of God, the true _worship_ of a fellow-creature, in the old +meaning of the word, is the most potent thing for deliverance. + +“No, sir,” answered Richard; “the library is left in mid ocean of decay. +I don't know why they have dismissed me. The only thing clear is, that +they want to be rid of me. What I have done I can't think. There is a +little girl of the family--” + +Here he told how Vixen had from the first behaved to him, and what +things had happened in consequence, the last more particularly. + +“But,” he concluded, “I do not think it can be that. I _should_ like to +know what it is.” + +“Then wait,” said Wingfold. “If we only wait long enough, every reason +will come out. You know I believe we are not going to stop, but are +meant to go on and on for ever; and I believe the business of eternity +is to bring grand hidden things out into the light; and with them will +come of necessity many other things as well, even some, I daresay, that +we count trifles.--But I am sorry you're going.” + +“I don't see why you should be, sir!” answered Richard, his look taking +from the words their seeming rudeness. + +“Because I like you, and feel sure we should understand each other if +only we had time,” replied the parson. “It's a grand thing to come +upon one who knows what you mean. It's so much of heaven before you +get there.--If you think I'm talking shop, I can't help it--and I don't +care, so long as you believe I mean it. I would not have you think it +the Reverend Thomas and not Thomas himself that was saying it.” + +“I should never say you talked shop, sir; and I don't think you would +say I was talking shop if I expatiated on the beauties of a Grolier +binding! You would see I was not talking from love of gain, but love of +beauty!” + +“Thank you. You are a fair man, and that is even more than an honest +man! I don't speak from love of religion; I don't know that I do love +religion.” + +“I don't understand you now, sir.” + +“Look here: I am very fond of a well-bound book; I should like all my +new books bound in levant morocco; but I don't _care_ about it; I could +do well enough without any binding at all.” + +“Of course you could, sir! and so could I, or any man that cared for the +books themselves.” + +“Very well! I don't care about religion much, but I could not live +without my Father in heaven. I don't believe anybody can live without +him.” + +“I see,” said Richard. + +He thought he saw, but he did not see, and could not help smiling in his +heart as he said to himself, “_I_ have lived a good many years without +him!” + +Wingfold saw the shadow of the smile, and blamed himself for having +spoken too soon. + +“When do you go?” he asked. + +“I think I shall go to-morrow. I am at my grandfather's.” + +“If I can be of use to you, let me know.” + +“I will, sir; and I thank you heartily. There's nothing a man is so +grateful for as friendliness.” + +“The obligation is mutual,” said Wingfold. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. _MR., MRS., AND MISS WYLDER_. + +A new experience had come to Mrs. Wylder. Her passion over the death +of her son; her constant and prolonged contention with her husband; her +protest against him whom she called the Almighty; the public consequence +of the same; these, and the reaction from all these, had resulted in +a sudden sinking of the vital forces, so that she who had been like a +burning fiery furnace, was now like a heap of cooling ashes on a hearth, +with the daylight coming in. She had not only never known what illness +was, she did not even know what it was to feel unfit. Her consciousness +of health was so clear, so unmixed, so unencountered, that she had never +had a conception, a thought, a notion of what even that health was. +Power and strength had so constantly seemed part of her known self, that +she never thought of them: they were never far enough from her to be +seen by her; she did not suspect them as other than herself, or dream +that they could be disjoined from her. She could think only in the +person of a strong woman; she was aware only of the being of a strong +woman. Even after she had been some time helpless in bed, as often as +she thought of anything she would like to do, it was the act of trying +to get up and do it that made her aware afresh that she was no more +the woman corresponding to her consciousness of herself. For her +consciousness had never yet presented her as she really was, but always +through the conditional and non-essential, so that by accidents only was +she characterized to herself. Now she was too feeble even to care for +the loss of her strength; her weakness went too deep to be felt as an +oppression, for it met with no antagonism. Her inability to move was now +no prison, and her attendant was no slave with tardy feet, but an angel +of God. + +For her Bab was now the mother's one delight. Her love for her lost twin +had been in great part favouritism, partisanship, defence, opposition; +her love for Barbara was all tenderness and no pride. In her self-lack +she clung to her--as lordly dame, who had taken her castle for part of +herself, and impregnable, but, its walls crumbling under the shot of +the enemy, found herself defenceless before her captors, might turn and +clasp her little maid, suppliant for protection. Good is it that we are +not what we seem to ourselves “in our hours of ease,” for then we should +never seek the Father! The loss of all that the world counts _first +things_ is a thousandfold repaid in the mere waking to higher need. It +proves the presence of the divine in the lower good, that its loss is +so potent. A man may send his gaze over the clear heaven, and suspect no +God; when the stifling cloud comes down, folds itself about him, shuts +from him the expanse of the universe, he begins to long for a hand, a +sign, some shadow of presence. Mrs. Wylder had not got so far as this +yet, but she had sought refuge in love; and what is the love of +child, or mother, or dog, but the love of God, shining through another +being--which is a being just because he shines through it. This was the +one important result of her illness, that, finding refuge in the love +of her daughter, she loved her daughter. The next point in her eternal +growth would be to love the God who made the child she loved, and whose +love shone upon her through the child. By nature she was a strong woman +whom passion made weak. It sucked at her will till first it hardened it +to a more selfish determination, then pulped it to a helpless obstinacy. +The persistence that goes with inclination has its force only from the +weakness of pride and the mean worship of self; it is the opposite +of that free will which is the reflex of the divine will, and the +ministering servant-power to all freedom, which resists and subdues the +self of inclination, and is obedient only to the self of duty. Where the +temple of God has no windows, earthquake must rend the roof, that the +sunlight may enter. Barbara's mother lay broken on her couch that the +spirit of the daughter might enter the soul of her mother--and with it +the spirit of him who, in the heart of her daughter, made her that which +she was. + +Her illness had lasted a month, when one day her husband, at Barbara's +prayer coming to see her, she feebly put out her hand asking for his, +and for a moment the divine child in the man opened its heavenly eyes. +He took the offered hand kindly, faltered a gentle-sounding commonplace +or two, and left her happier, with a strange little bird fluttering in +his own bosom. There are eggs of all the heavenly birds in our bosoms, +and the history of man is the incubation and hatching of these eggs. + +She began to recover, but the recovery was a long one. As soon as she +thought her well enough, Barbara told her that Mr. Wingfold had been to +inquire after her almost every day, and asked whether she would not like +to see him. Mrs. Wylder was in a quiescent condition, non-combatant, +involving no real betterment, occasioned only by the absence of impulse. +But such a condition gives opportunity for the good, the gentle, the +loving, to be felt, and so recognized. The sufferer resembles a child +that has not been tempted, whose trial is yet to come. With recovery, +fresh claim will be put in by the powers of good. This claim will be +resisted by old habit, resuming its force in the return of physical +and psychical health,--and then comes the tug of war. For no one can be +saved, as he who knows his master would be saved, without the will +being supreme in the matter, without the choosing to fulfill all +righteousness, to resist the wrong, to do the right. Wingfold never +built much on bed-repentance. The aphorism of the devil sick and the +devil well, is only too true. But he welcomed the fresh opportunity for +a beginning. He knew that pain and sickness do rub some dirt from the +windows toward the infinite, and that things of the old unknown world +whence we came, do sometimes look in at them, a moment now, and a moment +then, waking new old things that lie in every child born into the world. +I seem to see the great marshes where the souls go wandering about after +the bog-fires; a kiss blown from the walls of the city comes wavering +down among them; it flits hither and thither with the dead-lights; it +finds a soul with a spot on which it can alight; it settles there; and +kisses it alive. God is the God of patience, and waits and waits for the +child who keeps him waiting and will not open the door. + +Wingfold went to see her, but took good care to press nothing upon her. +He let her give him the lead. She spoke of her weakness, and the parson +drew out her moan. She praised her Barbara, and the parson praised her +again in words that opened the mother's eyes to new beauties in her +daughter. She mentioned her weariness, and the parson spoke of the +fields and the soft wind and the yellow shine of the butter-cups in the +grass. Her heart was gently drawn to the man whose eyes were so keen, +whose voice was so mellow and strong, and whose words were so lovely +sweet, saying the things that were in her own heart, but would not come +out. + +One day he proposed to read something, and she consented. I will not +say what he read, for I would avoid waking controversy as to fitness. He +thought he knew what he was about. The good in a _true_ book, he would +say, is the best protection against what may not be so good in it; its +wrong as well as its right may wake the conscience: the thoughts of +a book accuse and excuse one another. In saying so, he took the true +reader for granted; to an untrue reader the truth itself is untrue. The +general sense of honour, he would say, has been stimulated not a little +by the story of the treachery of Jael. Nor was it any wonder he should +succeed in interesting Mrs. Wylder, for she had a strong brain as well +as a big heart. More than half her faults came of an indignant sense +of wrong. She had passionately loved her husband once, but he had soon +ceased even the show of returning her affection, + + And to be wroth with one we love + Doth work like madness in the brain. + +After a fierce struggle against the lessons life would have her taught, +a struggle continued to her fortieth year, she was now at length a pupil +in another school, where the schoolroom was her bed, the book of Quiet +her first study, her two attendants a clergyman and her own daughter, +and her one teacher, God himself. In that schoolroom, the world began to +open to her a little. Among men who could, without seeming to aim at it, +make another think, I have not met the equal of Wingfold. His mode was +that of the open-hearted apostle, who took men by guile. He called out +the thoughts lurking in their souls, and set them dealing with those +thoughts, not with him: they were slow to discover that he was a divine +musician, playing upon the holy strings of their hearts; they thought +the tunes came alive in their own air--as indeed they did, only another +hand woke them. To work thus, he had to lay bare not a little of his +own feeling, but where it was brotherly to show feeling, he counted it +unchristian to hide it. Feeling by itself, however, that came and went +without correspondent action, he counted not only weak and mawkish, but +tending to the devilish. + +Barbara was happy all day long. Life seemed about to blossom into a +great flower of scarlet and gold. She had learned from the parson that +the bookbinder was gone, but was at the time too busy and too anxious to +question him as to the cause of his going. Till her mother was well, it +was enough to know that Richard had wanted to see her, doubtless to tell +her all about it. She often thought of him, what he had done for her, +and what she had tried to do for him, and was certain he would one +day believe in God. She did not suspect any quarrel with the people at +Mortgrange. She thought perhaps the secret concerning him had come out, +and he did not choose to remain in a house the head of which, if lady +Ann's tale was true, had so bitterly wronged his mother. As soon as she +was able she would go and hear of him from his grandfather! There was +no hurry! She would certainly see him again before long! And he would be +sure to write! It did not occur to her that a man in his position would +hardly venture to approach her again, without some renewed approach on +her part; and for a long time she was nowise uneasy. + +The hope alive in Wingfold made him a true consoler; and the very +sight of him was a strength to Barbara. She regarded him with profound +reverence, and his wife as most enviable of women: could she not learn +from his mouth the rights of a thing, the instant she opened hers to ask +them? Barbara did not know how much the sympathy, directness, and dear +common sense of Helen, had helped to keep awake, support, and nourish +the insight of her husband. She did not know, good and powerful as +Wingfold must have been had he never married, how much wiser, more +useful, and more aspiring he had grown because Helen was Helen, and his +wife, sent as certainly as ever angel in the old time. The one fault +she had in the eyes of her husband was, that she was so indignant with +affectation or humbug of any sort, as hardly to give the better thing +that might coexist with it, the needful chance. + +So long as evil comes to the front, it appears an interminable, +unconquerable thing. But all the time there may be a change, positive +as inexplicable, at the very door. How is it that a child begins to +be good? Upon what fulcrum rests the knife-edge of alteration? As +undistinguishable is the moment in which the turn takes place; equally +perplexing to keenest investigation the part of the being in which the +renovation commences. Who shall analyze repentance, as a force, or as a +phenomenon! You cannot see it coming! Before you know, there it is, and +the man is no more what he was; his life is upon other lines! The wind +hath blown. We saw not whence it came, or whither it went, but the +new birth is there. It began in the spiritual infinitesimal, where all +beginnings are. The change was begun in Mrs. Wylder. But the tug of her +war was to come. + +Lady Ann had not once been to see her since first calling when she +arrived. Naturally she did not take to her. In the eyes of lady +Ann, Mrs. Wylder was insufferable--a vulgar, arrogant, fierce woman, +purse-proud and ignorant. But a keen moral eye would have perceived lady +Ann vastly inferior to Mrs. Wylder in everything right-womanly. Lady +Ann was the superior by the changeless dignity of her carriage, but her +self-assured pre-eminence was offensive, and her drawling deliberation +far more objectionable than Mrs. Wylder's abrupt movements, or the +rough and ready speech that accompanied her eager dart at the gist of +a matter. Even the look that would kill a man if it could, never roused +such hate as sprang to meet the icy stare of her passionless ladyship. +Many a man with no admiration of the florid, would have sought refuge +in Mrs. Wylder's plump face, vivid with an irritable humanity, from the +moveless pallor of lady Ann's delicately formed cheek, and the pinched +thinness of her fine, poverty-stricken nose. Oh those pinched nostrils, +the very outcry of inward meanness! will they ever open to the full tide +of a surging breath? What vital interweaving of gladness and grief will +at length make strong and brave and unselfish the heart that sent out +those nostrils? Less than a divine shame will never make it the heart of +a fearless, bountiful, redeeming woman. + +Mrs. Wylder was nowise annoyed that lady Ann did not call a second time. +She did not care enough to mind, and preferred not seeing her. They had +in common as near nothing as humanity permitted. “Stuck-up kangaroo!” + she cried her. + +“I'll lay you my best sapphire,” she said to her daughter, in the +hearing of Wingfold, whose presence she had forgotten, “that for the +last three hundred years not a woman of her family has suckled her own +young!” + +Neither mother nor daughter had shown the least deference to lady Ann's +exalted position. The first movement of her dislike to Mrs. Wylder was +caused by her laughing and talking as unrestrainedly in her presence as +in that of the doctor's wife, who happened to be in the room when lady +Ann entered. But now that danger, not to say ruin, appeared in the +distance, she must, for the sake of her son, wronged by his father's +having married another woman before his mother, neglect no chance! +Arthur had been to Wylder Hall repeatedly, but Barbara had not seen him! +She must go herself, and pay some court to the young heiress! She +was anxious also to learn whether any chagrin was concerned in her +continuous absence from Mortgrange. + +Barbara received her heartily, and they talked a little, lady Ann +imagining herself very pleasing: she rarely condescended to make herself +agreeable, and measured her success by her exertion. She found Barbara +in such good spirits that she pronounced her heartless--not to her son, +or to any but herself, who would not have come near her but for the +money to be got with her. She begged her, notwithstanding, for the sake +of her complexion, to leave her mother an hour or two now and then, and +ride over to Mortgrange. Incessant watching would injure her health, and +health was essential to beauty! Barbara protested that nothing ever hurt +her; that she was the only person she knew fit to be a nurse, because +she was never ill. When her ladyship, for once oblivious of her manners, +grew importunate, Barbara flatly refused. + +“You must pardon me, lady Ann,” she said; “I cannot, and I will not +leave my mother.” + +Then lady Ann thought it might be wise to make a little more of the +mother to whom she seemed so devoted. She had imagined the daughter +of the coarse woman must feel toward her as she did, and suspected a +coarser grain in the daughter than she had supposed, because she was not +disgusted with her mother. She did not know that eyes of love see the +true being where other eyes see only its shadow; and shadows differ a +good deal from their bodies. + +But meeting Mr. Wylder in the avenue as she returned, and stopping her +carriage to speak to him, lady Ann changed her mind, and resolved to +curry favour with the husband instead of the wife. For hitherto she +had scarcely seen Mr. Wylder, and knew about him only by unfavourable +hearsay; but she was charmed with him now, and drew from him a promise +to go and dine at Mortgrange. + +Bab went singing back to her mother, who was never so ill that she did +not like to hear her voice. She could not always bear it in the room, +but outside she was never tired of it. So Bab went about the house +singing like a mavis. But she never passed a servant, male or female, +without ceasing her song to say a kind word; and her mother, who, now +that she had got on a little, lay listening with her keenest of ears, +knew by the checks and changes of Bab's song, something of what was +going on in the house. If one asked Bab what made her so happy, she +would answer that she had nothing to make her unhappy; and there was +more philosophy in the answer than may at first appear. For certainly +the normal condition of humanity is happiness, and the thing that should +be enough to make us happy, is simply the absence of anything to make us +unhappy. + +“Everything,” she would answer another time, “is making me happy.” + +“I think I _am_ happiness,” she said once. + +How could she _naturally_ be other than happy, seeing she came of +happiness! “Il lieto fattore,” says Dante; “whose happy-making sight,” + says Milton. + +Mr. Wylder went and dined with sir Wilton and lady Ann. The latter did +her poor best to please him, and was successful. It had always been an +annoyance to Mr. Wylder that his wife was not a lady. In the bush he did +not feel it; but now he saw, as well as knew, wherein she was inferior, +and did not see wherein she excelled. It was the more consolation to +him that lady Ann praised his daughter, her beauty, her manners, her +wit--praised her for everything, in short, that she thought hers, and +for some things she thought were not hers. But she hinted that it would +be of the greatest benefit to Barbara to have the next season in London. +The girl had met nobody, and might, in her ignorance and innocence, +being such an eager, impetuous, warm-hearted creature, with her powers +of discrimination of course but little cultivated, make unsuitable +friendships that would lead to entanglement; while, well chaperoned, she +might become one of the first ladies in the county. She took care to let +her father know at the same time, or think he knew, that, although her +son would be only a baronet, he would be rich, for the estates were in +excellent condition and free of encumbrance; and hinted that there was +now a fine chance of enlarging the property, neighbouring land being in +the market at a low price. + +Mr. Wylder had indeed hoped for a higher match, but lady Ann, being +an earl's daughter, had influence with him. The remaining twin was so +delicate that it was very doubtful if he would succeed: if he did +not, and land could be had between to connect the two properties of +Mortgrange and Wylder, the estate would be far the finest in the county; +when, as lady Ann hinted, means might be used to draw down the favour of +Providence in the form of a patent of nobility. + +To lady Ann, London was the centre of love-making, and Arthur, she said +to herself, would show to better advantage there than in the country. +The place where she had herself been nearest to falling in love, was a +ball-room: the heat apparently had half thawed her. + +Mr. Wylder thought lady Ann was right, and the best thing for Barbara +would be to go to London: lady Ann would present her at court, and she +would doubtless be the belle of the season. Her chance would be none the +worse of making a better match than with Arthur Lestrange. + +It may seem odd that a like reflection did not occur to lady Ann: far +more eligible men than her son might well be drawn to such a bit of +sunshine as Barbara; but just what in Barbara was most attractive, lady +Ann was least capable of appreciating. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +_IN LONDON_. + +It was into the first of the London fogs of the season that Richard, +after a slow parliamentary journey, got out of his third-class carriage, +at the great dim station. He took his portmanteau in one hand, and his +bag of tools in the other, and went to look for an omnibus. How terribly +dull the streets were! and how terribly dull and commonplace all inside +him! Into the far dark, the splendour of life, Barbara, had vanished! +Various memories of her, now this look, now that, now this attire, now +that--a certain button half torn from her riding habit--the feeling of +her foot in his hand as he lifted her to Miss Brown's back--would enter +his heart like the proclamation of a queen on a progress through her +dominions. The way she drove the nails into her mare's hoof; the way +she would put her hand on his shoulder as she slid from the saddle; the +commanding love with which she spoke to the great animal, and the +way Miss Brown received it; the sweet coaxing respect she showed his +blacksmith-grandfather; the tone of her voice when she said _God_;--a +thousand attendant shadows glided in her queen-procession, one after the +other in single file, through his brain, and his heart, and his every +power. He forgot the omnibus, and went tramping through the dreary +streets with his portmanteau and a small bag of tools--he had sent home +his heavier things before--thinking ever of Barbara, and not scorning +himself for thinking of her, for he thought of her as true lady herself +would never scorn to be thought of by honest man. No genuine unselfish +feeling is to be despised either by its subject or its object. That +Barbara was lovely, was no reason why Richard should not love her! that +she was rich, was no reason why he should forget her! She came into his +life as a star ascends above the horizon of the world: the world cannot +say to it, “Go down, star.” Yea, Richard's star raised him as she rose. +In her presence he was at once rebuked and uplifted. She was a power +within him. He could not believe in God, but neither could he think +belief in such a God as she believed in, degrading. He said to himself +that everything depended on the kind of God believed in; and that the +kind of God depended on the kind of woman. He wondered how many ideas +of God there might be, for every one who believed in him must have a +different idea. “Some of them must be nearer right than others!” he said +to himself--nor perceived that he was beginning to entertain the notion +of a real God. For he saw that the notions of the best men and women +must be convergent, and was not far from thinking that such lines must +point to some object, rather than an empty centre: the idea of the best +men and women must be a believable idea, might be a true idea, might +therefore be a real existence. He had not yet come to consider the fact, +that the best of men said he knew God; that God was like himself, only +greater; that whoever would do what he told him should know that God, +and know that he spoke the truth concerning him; that he had come from +him to witness of him that he was truth and love. Richard had indeed +started on a path pointing thitherward, but as yet all concerning the +one necessary entity was vaguest speculation with him. He did feel, +however, that to give in to Barbara altogether, would not make him +a believer such as Barbara. On the other hand, he was yet far from +perceiving that no man is a believer, let him give his body to be +burned, except he give his will, his life to the Master. No man is a +believer with whom he and his father are not first; no man, in a word, +who does not obey him, that is, who does not do what he said, and says. +It seems preposterous that such definition should be necessary; but +thousands talk about him for one that believes in him; thousands will do +what the priests and scribes say he commands, for one who will search to +find what he says that he may do it--who will take his orders from +the Lord himself, and not from other men claiming either knowledge or +authority. A man must come up to the Master, hearken to his word, and +do as he says. Then he will come to know God, and to know that he knows +him. + +When he stopped thinking of Barbara, all was dreary about Richard. But +he did not once say to himself, “She does not love me!” did not once +ask, “Does she love me?” He said, “She cares for me; she is good to me! +I wish I believed as she does, that I might hope to meet her again in +the house of the one Father!” + +It was Saturday night, and he had to go through a weekly market, a +hurrying, pushing, loitering, jostling crowd, gathered thick about the +butchers' and fishmongers' shops, the greengrocers' barrows, and the +trays upon wheels with things laid out for sale. Suddenly a face flashed +upon him, and disappeared. He was not sure that it was Alice's, but it +suggested Alice so strongly that he turned and tried to overtake it. +Impeded by his luggage, however, which caught upon hundreds of legs, he +soon saw the attempt hopeless. Then with pain he remembered that he had +not her address, and did not know how to communicate with her. He +longed to learn why she had left him without a word, what her repeated +avoidance of him meant; far more he desired to know where she was +that he might help her, and how she fared. But Barbara was her friend! +Barbara knew her address! He would ask her to send it him! He hardly +thought she would, for she was in the secret of Alice's behaviour, but, +joy to think, it would be a reason for writing to her! His heart gave a +bound in his bosom. Who could tell but she might please to send him the +fan-wind of a letter now and then, keeping the door, just a chink of it, +open between them, that the voice of her slave might reach her on the +throne of her loveliness! He walked the rest of the way with a gladder +heart; he was no longer without a future; there was something to do, and +something to wait for! Days are dreary unto death which wrap no hope in +their misty folds. + +His uncle and aunt received him with more warmth than he had ever known +them show. They were in good spirits about him, for they had all the +time been receiving news of him and Barbara, with not a word of Alice, +from old Simon. Jane's heart swelled with the ambition that her boy +should as a working-man gain the love of a well born girl, and reward +her by making her _my lady_. + +I do not think Mrs. Tuke could have loved a son of her own body more +than this son of her sister; but she was constantly haunted with a vague +uneasiness about the possible consequences to herself and her husband +of what she had done, and the obstacles that might rise to prevent his +restoration; and this uneasiness had its share both in repressing the +show of her love, and in making her go to church so regularly. Her +pleasure in going was not great, but she was not the less troubled that +Richard did not care about going. She was still in the land of bullocks +and goats; she went to church with the idea that she was doing something +for God in going. It is always the way. Until a man knows God, he seeks +to obey him by doing things he neither commands nor cares about; while +the things for the sake of which he sent his son, the man regards as of +little or no consequence. What the son says about them, he takes as a +matter of course for him to say, and for himself to neglect. + +Mrs. Tuke noted, the next day, that, as often almost as he was still, +a shadow settled on Richard's face, and he looked lost and sad: but it +only occurred to her that of course he must miss Barbara, never that +he cherished no hope such as she would have counted hope. She took it +almost as an omen of final success when in the evening he asked her if +she would not like him to go to church with her. He felt as if in church +he would be nearer Barbara, for he knew that now she went often. But +alas, while there he sat, he felt himself drifting farther and farther +from her! The foolish utterances of the parson made him deeply regret +that he had gone. While he believed, or at least was willing to believe, +that they misrepresented Christianity, they awoke all his old feelings +of instinctive repulsion, and overclouded his discrimination. Almost as +little could he endure the unnature as the untruth of what he heard. It +had no ring of reality, no spark of divine fire, no appealing radiance +of common sense, little of any verity at all. There was in it, as nearly +as possible, nothing at all to mediate between mind and mind, between +truth and belief, between God and his children. The clergyman was not a +hypocrite--far from it! He was in some measure even a devout man. But in +his whole presentation of God and our relation to him, there was neither +thought nor phrase germane to sunrise or sunset, to the firmament or the +wind or the grass or the trees; nothing that came to the human soul as +having a reality true as that of the world but higher; as holding with +the life lived in it, with the hopes and necessities of the heart and +mind. If “the hope of the glory of God” must be fashioned in like sort, +then were the whole affair of creation and redemption both dull and +desperate. There was no glow, no enthusiasm in the man--neither +could there be, with the notions he held. His God suggested a police +magistrate--and not a just one. + +Richard would gladly have left the place, and wandered up and down in +the drizzle until, the service over, his mother should appear; but for +her sake he sat out the misery. + +“The man,” he said to himself, “does not give us one peg on which to +hang the love of God that he tells us we ought to feel! Love a God like +that! If he were as good as my mother, I would love him! But we have all +to look out to protect ourselves from him! Mr. Parson, there's no such +being as you jabber about! It puzzles me to think what my mother gets +from you.” + +He had written his letter to Barbara, and when they came out he posted +it. A long, long time of waiting followed; but no waiting brought any +answer. Lady Ann had dropped a hint, and Mr. Wylder had picked it up, a +hint delicate, but forcible enough to make him do what he had never done +before--keep an outlook on the letters that came for his daughter. +When Richard's arrived, it did not look to him that of a gentleman. +The writing was good, but precise; it was sealed with red wax, but the +impression was sunk: a proper seal had not been used! Especially where +his own family was concerned, Mr. Wylder was not the most delicate of +men! he opened the letter, and in it found what he called a rigmarole of +poetry and theology! “Confound the fellow!” he said to himself. Lady Ann +did well to warn him! There should be no more of this! The scatter-brain +took after her mother! He would give it her hot! + +But he neither gave it her hot, nor gave her the letter; he did not say +a word. He feared the little girl he pretended to protect, and knew that +if he entered the lists with her, she would be too much for him. But he +did not understand that the mean in him dared not confront the noble in +his child. So Richard's letter only had it hot; it went into the fire, +and Bab never read the petition of her poor friend. + +The next morning Richard went to the shop, and fell to the first +job that came to his hand. He acquainted his father with Lestrange's +proposal in regard to the library: Mr. Tuke would have him accept it. + +“You shall have all it brings,” he said. + +“I don't want the money!” returned Richard. + +“But I want the honour of the thing,” replied his uncle. “You answered +the young gentleman sharply: you had better let me write!” + +Richard made no objection. He would gladly keep the door open to any +place where the shadow of Barbara might fall, and was willing therefore +to pocket the offence of his causeless dismissal. But no notice was +taken of Tuke's letter, and a gulf of negation seemed to yawn between +the houses. + +Thus was initiated a dreary time for Richard. Now first he began to know +what unhappiness was. The seeming loveless weather that hung over the +earth and filled the air, was in joyless harmony with his feelings. +But had his trouble fallen in a more genial season, it would have been +worse. He had never been with Barbara in the winter, and it did not seem +so unnatural to be without her now. Had it been summer, all the forms of +earth and air would have brought to him the face and voice and motion +of Barbara; and yet the soul would have been gone from them. The world +would have been worse dead then than now in the winter. Barbara had been +the soul of it--more than a sun to it. + +He could not, however, dead as the world seemed, remain a moment indoors +after his work was done. Whatever sort the weather, out he must go, +often on the Thames, heedless of cold or wind or rain. His mother grew +anxious about him, attributed his unrest to despair, and feared she +might have to tell him her secret. She recoiled from setting free +what she had kept in prison for so many years. In her own mind she had +settled his coming of age as the term of his humiliation, and she would +gladly keep to it. She shrunk from losing him, from breaking up the +happiness that lay in seeing him about the house. But that her husband +had insisted on accustoming themselves to live without him, she would +hardly have consented to his late absence. She shrunk also from the +measures necessary to reinstate him, and from the commotion those +measures must occasion. It was so much easier to go on as they were +doing! and delay could not prejudice his right! In fact, most of the +things that made her take the baby, were present still, making her +desire to keep the youth. A day would come when she must part with him, +but that day was not yet! She dreaded uncaging her secret, because of +the change it must work, whether immediate action were taken or not. She +never suspected that anyone knew or surmised it but herself, or that she +had to beware of any tongue but her own. + +Her husband left the matter entirely to her. It was her business, he +said, from the first, and he would let it be hers to the last. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. _NATURE AND SUPERNATURE._ + +But Richard soon began to recover both from the separation and from his +disappointment in regard to his letter. He was satisfied that whatever +might be the cause of her silence, it came from no fault in Barbara. +Nothing ever shook his faith in her. + +And soon he found that he looked now upon the world with eyes from +which a veil had been withdrawn. Barbara gone, mother Earth came nigh +to comfort her child. He had always delighted in the beauty of the +world--in what shows of earth and air were to be seen in London. The +sunset that filled as with a glowing curtain the end of some street +where he walked, would go on glowing in his heart when it left the +street. Even in winter he would now and then go out to see the sunrise, +and see it; and from the street might now and then, at rare times, he +beheld a dappling and streaking, a mottling and massing of clouds on +the blue. The fog of the London valley, and the smoke of the London +chimneys, did not _always_, any more than the cares and sorrows and +sins of its souls, blot out its heaven as if it had never looked on the +earth. But he had learned much since he went to the country; he had gone +nearer to Nature, and seen that in her lap she carried many more things +than he knew of; and now that Barbara was gone, the memories of Nature +came nearer to him: he remembered her and was glad. Soon he began to +find that, both as regards Nature and those whom we love, absence is, +for very nearness, often better than presence itself. He had been +used to think and talk of Nature either as an abstraction, or as the +personification of a force that knew nothing, and cared for nothing, was +nobody, was nothing; now it gradually came to him, and gained upon him +ere he knew, first that the things about him wore meanings, and held +them up to him, then that something was thinking, something was meaning +the things themselves, and so moving thoughts in him, that came and went +unforeseen, unbidden. Thoughts clothed in things were everywhere about +him, over his head, under his feet, and in his heart; and as often +as anything brought him pleasure, either through memory or in present +vision, it brought Barbara too; and she seemed their maker, when she was +but one of the fair company, the lady of the land. Everything beautiful +turned his face to the more beautiful, more precious, diviner Barbara. +With each new sense of loveliness, she floated up from where she lay, +ever ready to rise, in the ocean of his heart. She was the dweller of +his everywhere! + +He knew that Barbara did not make these things; it only seemed as if she +made them because she was the better joy of them: did not the fact show +how the fiction of a God might have sprung up in the minds that had no +Barbara to look like the maker of the loveliness? But Barbara was there +already, known and loved. The mind did not invent Barbara. And again, +why should the mind want anyone to look like a maker, an indweller, an +_ingeniuer_--to use a word of Shakespeare's invention? Yet again, why +should the thought of Barbara _suggest_ a soul, that is, a causing, +informing presence, to these things? Was there a meaning in them? How +did they come to have that meaning? Could it be that, having come out of +nothing--the mind of man, and all the things, out of the same nothing, +they responded enough to each other for the man to find his own reflex +wherever he pleased to look for it? Only, if man and Nature came both +out of nothing, why should they not be nothing to each other? why +should not man be nothing to himself? As it was, one nothing, having no +thought, meant the same the other nothing meant, having thought!--and +hence came all the beauty of the world! And once again, if these things +meant nothing but what the mind put into them--its own thought, namely, +of them--they did not really mean anything, they were only imagined to +mean it; and why should he, if but for a moment, imagine Barbara at the +root of nothing? And why should he not, seeing she was herself nothing? +Or was he to consent to be fooled, and act as if there was something +where he knew there was nothing? + +The truth of Richard's love appeared in this that he was more able now +to see the other side of a thing, to start objection to his own idea +from the side of one who thought differently. + +“If I feel,” he would say to himself, “as if these things meant +something, and conclude that they only mean _me,_ being the body to me, +who am the soul of them; and still more if I conclude that the sum of +them is the blind cause of me; then, when I grow sick of myself, finding +no comfort, no stay in myself for myself, and know that I need another, +say _another self,_ then the seeming sympathy that Nature offers me, +is the merest mockery! It is only my own self--myself gone behind and +peeping round a corner, grinning back sympathy at me from its sickening +death-mask! Why should man need another if he came from nothing? But +he came from a father and mother: man needed the woman: will not +that explain the thing? No; for even the relation itself needs to be +comforted and sustained and defended!” + +Why was there so much, and most of all in himself, for which, as Richard +was beginning to understand, even a Barbara could not suffice? Why also +did her sufficiency depend so much on her faith in an all-sufficient? +And why was there so often such a gulf betwixt the two that seemed made +for each other? Ah! they were made for each other only in the general! +For the individual, Nature did not care; she had no time! Then how +was it that he cared for Nature? If Nature meant anything, was an +intelligence, a sort of God, why should he, the individual, who loved as +an individual, was a blessing or curse to himself as an individual--why +should he care anything for one who loved only in the general? Could +a man love in general? Yes; he himself loved his kind and sought to +deliver them from superstition. But that was because he could think +of them as a multitude of individuals. If he had never loved father, +mother, or friend, would he have loved in the general? Would crowds of +men and women have _awaked_ love in him? If so, then the bigger crowd +must always move the greater love! No; it is from the individual we +go to the many. Love that was only in the general, that cared for the +nation, the race, and let the individual perish, could not be love. He +would be no God who cared only for a world or a race. The live conscious +individual man could not love or worship him! And if no individual +worshipped, where would be the worship of the crowd? Still less could a +vague creator of masses, that knew nothing of individuals, being himself +not individual, be worthy to be called God! Demon be might be--never +God! But if God were a person, an individual, and so loved the +individual!--ah, then indeed!--Barbara believed that such a God lived +all about and in us! Mr. Wingfold said he was too great to prove, too +near to see, but the greater and the nearer, the more fit to be loved! +There were things against it! Nature herself seemed against it, for, +lovely us she was, she did awful things! Could Nature have come from one +source, and God be another source from which came man? He was too near +Nature, too much at home with her, to believe it. Could it be one Nature +that made all the lovely things, and another Nature that decreed their +fate? That also he could not believe: they and their fate must be from +one hand, or heart, or will! He could but hope there might be some way +of reconciling the terrible dissonance between Nature and Barbara's God! +If there was such a way, if their contradiction was only in seeming, +then the very depth of their unity might be the cause of their seeming +discord! + +Something in this way the mind of Richard felt and thought and saw and +doubted and speculated. Then he would turn to the ancient story--still +because “Barbara said.” + +The God Barbara believed in was like Jesus Christ!--not at all like the +God his mother believed in! Jesus was one that could be loved: he +could not have come to reveal such a God as his mother's, for he was +no revelation of that kind of a God! He was gentle, and cared for the +individual! And he said he loved the Father! But he was his son, and a +good son might love a bad father. Yes, but could a bad God have a good +son? No; the son of God must be the revelation of his father; such as +the Son is, just such and no other must the Father be; there cannot but +be harmony between the beings of the two! + +In very truth there must appear schism in Nature, yea schism in God +himself, until we see that the ruling Father and the suffering Son are +of one mind, one love, one purpose; that in the Father the Son rules, +in the Son the Father suffers; that with the Son the other children must +suffer and rise to rule. To Richard's eyes there was schism everywhere; +no harmony, no right, no concord, no peace! And yet all science pointed +to harmony, all imagination thirsted for it, all conscience commanded +it! all music asserted and prophesied it! all progress was built on the +notion of it! all love, the only thing yielding worth to existence, was +a partial realization of it! So that the schism came even to this, that +harmony itself was divided against itself, asserting that the thing that +was not, and could not be, yet ought to be! Nothing but harmony has a +real, a true, an essential being; yet here were thousands of undeniable +things which seemed to exist in very virtue of their lack of harmony! +There were shocks and recoils in every part of every thinking soul, +in every part of the object-world! And yet in certain blissful pauses, +unlooked for, uncaused by man, certain sudden silences of the world, an +eternal harmony would for one moment manifest itself behind the seething +conflicting discords that fill the atmosphere of the soul--straightway +to vanish again, it is true, but into the heart of Hope that saves +men. If harmony was not at one with itself in its harmony, neither was +discord at one with itself in its discordancy! Now and then all nature +seemed on the point of breaking into a smile, and saying, “Ah, children! +if you but knew what I know!” Why did she not say what she knew? Why +should she hide the thing that would make her children blessed? + +The thought, half way to an answer, did not come to Richard then: What +if we are not yet able to understand her secret--therefore not able to +see it although it lies open before us? What if the difficulty lies in +us! What if Nature is doing her best to reveal! What if God is working +to make us know--if we would but let him--as fast as ever he can! +There is one thing that will not be pictured, cannot be made notionally +present to the mind by any effort of the imagination--one thing that +requires the purest faith: a man's own ignorance and incapacity. It is +impossible to think of the object of our ignorance, how then realize the +ignorance whose very centre is a blank, a negation! When a man knows, +then first he gets a glimpse of his ignorance as it vanishes. Ignorance, +I say, cannot be the object of knowledge. We must _believe_ ourselves +ignorant. And for that we must be humble of heart. When our world seems +clear to the horizon, when the constellations beyond look plainest, when +we seem to be understanding all within our scope, then have we yet to +believe that, unseen, formally unsuspected, beyond, lies that which may +wither up many forms of our belief, and must modify every true form +in which we hold the truth. For God is infinite, and we are his little +ones, and his truth is eternally better than the best shape in which we +see it. Jesus is perfect, but is our idea of him perfect? One thing only +is changeless truth in us, and that is--obedient faith in him and his +father. Even that has to grow--but with a growth which is not change. +That there is a greater life than that we feel--yea, a life that causes +us, and is absolutely and primarily essential to us--of this truth we +have a glimpse; but no man will arrive at the peace of it by struggling +with the roots of his nature to understand them, for those roots go down +and out, out and down infinitely into the infinite. It is by acting upon +what he sees and knows, hearkening to every whisper, obeying every hint +of the good, following whatever seems light, that the man will at length +arrive. Thus obedient, instead of burying himself in the darkness about +its roots, he climbs to the tree-top of his being; and looking out +thence on the eternal world in which its roots vanish and from which it +draws its nourishment, he will behold and understand at least enough to +give him rest--and how much more, let his Hope of the glory of God stand +at its window and tell him. For in his climbing, the man will, somewhere +in his progress upward, the progress of obedience, of accordance to the +law of things, awake to know that the same spirit is in him that is +in the things he beholds; and that his will, his individuality, his +consciousness, as it infolds, so it must find the spirit, that root of +himself, which is infinitely more than himself, that “one God and Father +of all, who is above all, and through all, and in you all.” When He is +known, then all is well. Then is being, and in it the growth of being, +laid open to him. God is the world, the atmosphere, the element, the +substance, the essence of his life. In him he lives and moves and has +his being. Now he lives indeed; for his Origin is his, and this rounds +his being to eternity. God himself is his, as nothing else could be his. +The serpent of doubt is gagged with his own tail, and becomes the symbol +of the eternal. + +Dissatisfaction is but the reverse of the medal of life. So long as a +man is satisfied, he seeks nothing; when a fresh gulf is opened in his +being, he must rise and find wherewithal to fill it. Our history is the +opening of such gulfs, and the search for what will fill them. + +But Richard was far yet from having his head above the cloudy region of +moods and in the blue air of the unchangeable. As the days went by and +brought him no word from Barbara, the darkness again began to gather +around him. There are as many changes in a lover's weather as in that +of England. The sad consolations of nature by degrees forsook him; +they grew all sadness and no consolation. The winter of his soul wept +steadily upon him, laden with frost and death. He went back to his stern +denial of a God. He thought he had no need of any God, because he had no +hope in any. + +Strangely, but in accordance with his nature, while he denied God, he +denied him resentfully. “If there were a God,” he said, “why should I +pray to him? He has taken from me the one good his world held for me!” + Not an hour would he postpone judgment of him; not one century would he +give the God of patience to justify himself to his impatient child! +He lost his love of reading. A book was to him like a grinning +death's-head. He ministered to it no longer with his mind, but only with +his hands. He hated the very look of poetry. The straggling lines of it +were loathsome to his eyes. Where, in such a world as he now lived +in, could live a God worth being? Where indeed? Richard made his own +weather, and it was bad enough. Happily, there is no law compelling a +man to keep up the weather or the world he has made. Never will any man +devise or develop mood or world fit to dwell in. He must inhabit a world +that inhabits him, a world that envelops and informs every thought and +imagination of his heart. + +In Richard's world, the one true, the one divine thing was its misery, +for its misery was its need of God. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. _YET A LOWER DEEP._ + +But while thus Richard suffered, scarce knew, and cared nothing, how the +days went and came, he did his best to conceal his suffering from his +father and mother, and succeeded wonderfully. As if in reward for this +unselfishness, it flashed into his mind what a selfish fellow he was: +his trouble had made him forget Alice and Arthur! he must find them! + +He knew the street where the firm employing Arthur used to have its +offices; but it had removed to other quarters. He went to the old +address, and learned the new one. The next day he told his father he +would like to have a holiday. His father making no objection, he walked +into the city. There he found the place, but not Arthur. He had not been +there for a week, they said. No one seemed to know where he lived; but +Richard, regardless of rebuffs, went on inquiring, until at length he +found a carman who lived in the same street. He set out for it at once. + +After a long walk he came to it, a wretched street enough, in +Pentonville, with its numbers here obliterated, there repeated, and +altogether so confused, that for some time he could not discover +the house. Coming at length to one of the dingiest, whose number was +illegible, but whose door stood open, he walked in, and up to the second +floor, where he knocked at the first door on the landing. The feeble +sound of what was hardly a voice answered. He went in. There sat Arthur, +muffled in an old rug, before a wretched fire, in the dirtiest, rustiest +grate he had ever seen. He held out a pallid hand, and greeted him with +a sunless smile, but did not speak. + +“My poor, dear fellow!” said Richard; “what is the matter with you? Why +didn't you let me know?” + +The tears came in Arthur's eyes, and he struggled to answer him, but his +voice was gone. To Richard he seemed horribly ill--probably dying. +He took a piece of paper from his pocket, and a pencil-conversation +followed. + +“What is the matter with you?” + +“Only a bad cold.” + +“Where is Alice?” + +“At the shop. She will be back at eight o'clock.” + +“Where is your mother?” + +“I do not know; she is out.” + +“Tell me anything I can do for you.” + +“What does it matter! I do not know anything. It will soon be over.” + +“And this,” reflected Richard, “is the fate of one who believes in a +God!” But the thought followed close, “I wish I were going too!” And +then came the suggestion, “What if some one cares for him, and is taking +him away because he cares for him! What if there be a good time waiting +him! What if death be the way to something better! What if God be going +to surprise us with something splendid! What if there come a glorious +evening after the sad morning and fog-sodden night! What if Arthur's +dying be in reality a waking up to a better sunshine than ours! We see +only one side of the thing: he may see the other! What if God could not +manage to ripen our life without suffering! If only there were a God +that tried to do his best for us, finding great difficulties, but +encountering them for the sake of his children!”--“How dearly I should +love such a God!” thought Richard. He would hold by him to the last! He +would do his best to help him! He would fight for him! He would die for +him! + +His hour was not yet come to know that there is indeed such a God, doing +his best for us in great difficulties, with enemies almost too much for +him--the falsehood, namely, the unfilialness of his children, so many of +whom will not be true, priding themselves on the good he has created in +them, while they refuse to make it their own by obeying it when they are +disinclined. + +If even he might but hope that with his last sigh Arthur would awake to +a consciousness justifying his existence, let him be the creation of +a living power or the helpless product of a senseless, formless +Ens-non-ens, he would be content! For then they might one day meet +again--somewhere--somewhen, somehow; together encounter afresh the +troubles and dissatisfactions of life, and perhaps work out for +themselves a world more endurable! + +But with that came the thought of Barbara. + +“No!” he said to himself, “let us all die--die utterly! Why should we +grumble at our poor life when it means nothing, is so short, and gives +such a sure and certain hope of nothing more! Who would prolong it in +such a world, with which every soul confesses itself disappointed, of +which every heart cries that it cannot have been made for us! When they +grow old, men always say they have found life a delusion, and would not +live it again. From the first, things have been moving toward the worse; +life has been growing more dreary; men are more miserable now than when +they were savage: how can we tell that the world was not started at its +best, to go down hill for ever and ever, with a God to urge its evil +pace, for surely there is none to stop it! What if the world be the +hate-contrivance of a being whose delight it is to watch its shuddering +descent into the gulf of extinction, its agonized slide into the red +foam of the lake of fire!” + +But he must do something for the friend by whose side he had sat +speechless for minutes! + +“I will come and see you again soon, Arthur,” he said; “I must go now. +Would you mind the loan of a few shillings? It is all I happen to have +about me!” + +Arthur shook his head, and wrote, + +“Money is of no use--not the least.” + +“Don't you fancy anything that might do you good?” + +“I can't get out to get anything.” + +“Your mother would get it for you!” + +He shook his head. + +“But there's Alice!” + +Arthur gave a great sigh, and said nothing. Richard laid the shillings +on the chimneypiece, and proceeded to make up the fire before he went. +He could see no sort of coal-scuttle, no fuel of any kind. With a heavy +heart he left him, and went down into the street, wondering what he +could do. + +As he drew near the public-house that chiefly poisoned the +neighbourhood, it opened its hell-jaws, and cast out a woman in frowzy +black, wiping her mouth under her veil with a dirty pocket-handkerchief. +She had a swollen red face, betokening the presence of much drink, +walked erect, and went perfectly straight, but looked as if, were she to +relax the least of her state, she would stagger. As she passed Richard, +he recognized her. It was Mrs. Manson. Without a thought he stopped to +speak to her. The same moment he saw that, although not dead drunk, she +could by no tropical contortion be said to be sober. + +She started, and gave a snort of indignation. + +“You here!” she cried. “What the big devil do you want--coming here to +insult your betters! You the son of the bookbinder! You're no more +John Tuke's son than I am. You're the son of that precious rascal, +my husband! Go to sir Wilton; don't come to me! You're a base-born +wretch,--Oh yes, run to your mother! Tell her what I say! Tell her she +was lucky to get hold of her tradesman.” + +She had told her son and daughter that Richard was the missing heir; and +in what she now said she may have meant only to reflect on the humble +birth of his mother and abuse his aunt, but it does not matter much what +a drunkard means. At the same time the poison of asps may come from the +lips of a drunkard as from those of a sober liar. As the woman staggered +away, Richard gave a stagger too, and seemed to himself to go reeling +along the street. He sat down on a doorstep to recover himself, but +for a long way after resuming his walk went like one half stunned. His +brain, nevertheless, seemed to go on working of itself. The wretched +woman's statement glowed in him with a lurid light. It seemed to explain +so much! He had often felt that his father, though always just, did +not greatly care for him. Then there was his mother's strangeness--the +hardness of her religion, the gloom that at times took possession of her +whole being, her bursts of tenderness, and her occasional irritability! +His mother! That his mother should--should have made him an outcast! The +thought was sickening! It was horrible! Perhaps the woman lied! But +no; something questionable in the background of his life had been +unrecognizably showing from the first of his memory! All was clear now! +His mother's cruel breach with Alice, and her determination that there +should be no intercourse between the families, was explained: had Alice +and he fallen in love with each other, she would have had to tell the +truth to part them! He _must_ know the truth! He would ask his mother +straight out, the moment he got home! But how _could_ he ask her! How +could any son go to his mother with such a question! Whatever the answer +to it, he dared not! There was but one alternative left him--either to +kill himself, or to smother his suffering, and let the miserable world +go on! Why should he add to its misery by making his own mother more +miserable? Such a question from her son would go through her heart like +the claws of a lynx! How could she answer it! How could he look upon her +shame! Had she not had trouble enough already, poor mother! It would be +hard if her God assailed her on all sides--beset her behind and before! +Poor mother indeed, if her son was no better than her God! He must be a +better son to her than he had been! The child of her hurt must heal her! +Must he as well as his father be cruel to her! But alas, what help was +in him! What comfort could a heart of pain yield! what soothing stream +flow from a well of sorrow! Truly his mother needed a new God! + +But even this horror held its germ of comfort: he had his brother +Arthur, his sister Alice, to care and provide for! They should not die! +He had now the right to compel them to accept his aid! + +He thought and thought, and saw that, in order to help them, to do his +duty by them, he must make a change in his business relations with Mr. +Tuke: he must have the command of his earnings! He could do nothing +for his brother and sister as things were! To ask for money would wake +inquiry, and he dared not let his mother know that he went to see them! +If he did, she would be compelled to speak out, and that was a torture +he would rather see her die than suffer. He must have money concerning +which no questions would be asked! + +Poor, poor creatures! Oh, that terrible mother! It was good to know that +his mother was not like _her_! + +The first thing then was, to ask his father to take him as a journeyman, +and give him journeyman's wages. His work, he knew, was worth much more, +but that would be enough; his father was welcome to the rest. Out of his +wages he would pay his share of the housekeeping, and do as he pleased +with what was left. Buying no more books, he would have a nice little +weekly sum free for Alice and Arthur. To see his brother and sister half +starved was unendurable! he would himself starve first! But how was his +money to reach them in the shape of food? That greedy, drunken mother +of them swallowed everything! Like old Saturn she devoured her children; +she ate and drank them to death! Sport of a low consuming passion, +thought Richard, what matter whether she came of God or devil or nothing +at all! Redemption, salvation from an evil self, had as yet no greater +part in Richard's theories than in Mrs. Manson's thoughts. The sole +good, the sole satisfaction in life the woman knew, was to eat and +drink, if not what she pleased, at least what she liked. If there were +an eternity in front, thought Richard, and she had her way in it, she +would go on for ever eating and drinking, craving and filling, to all +the ages unsatisfied: he would _not_ have his hard-earned money go to +fill her insatiable maw! It was not his part in life to make her drunk +and comfortable! Wherever he came from, he could not be in the world for +that! So what was he to do? + +He seemed now to understand why Barbara had not written. She had known +him as the son of honest tradespeople, and had no pride to make her +despise him; but learning from Alice that he was base-born, she might +well wish to drop him! It might not be altogether fair of Barbara--for +how was he to blame? Almost as little was she to blame, brought up to +count such as he disgraced from their birth! Doubtless her religion +should have raised her above the cruel and false prejudice, for she said +it taught her to be fair, insisted that she should be just! But with +all the world against him, how could one girl stand up for him! True he +needed fair play just so much the more; but that was the way things +went in this best of possible worlds! No two things in it, meant to go +together, fitted! He fought hard for Barbara, strained his strength with +himself to be content beforehand with whatever she might do, or think, +or say. One thing only he could not bear--to think less of Barbara! That +would kill him, paralyze his very soul!--of a man make him a machine, a +beast outright at best! In all the world, Barbara was likest the God she +believed in: if she--the idea of her, that was, were taken from him, +he must despair! He could stand losing herself, he said, but not the +thought of her! Let him keep that! Let him keep that! He would revel in +that, and defy all the evil gods in the great universe! + +With his heart like a stone in his bosom, he reached the house, a home +to him no more! and by effort supreme--in which, to be honest, for +Richard was not yet a hero, he was aided by the consciousness of doing +a thing of praise--managed to demean himself rather better than of late. +The surges of the sea of troubles rose to overwhelm him; his courage +rose to brave them: let them do their worst! he would be a man still! +True, his courage had a cry at the heart of it; but there was not +a little of the stoic in Richard, and if it was not the stoicism of +Epictetus or of Marcus Aurelius, there was yet some timely, transient +help in it. He was doing the best he could without God; and sure the +Father was pleased to see the effort of his child! To suffer in patience +was a step toward himself. No doubt self was potent in the patience, +and not the best self, for that forgets itself--yet the better self, the +self that chooses what good it knows. + +The same night he laid his request for fixed wages before his father, +who agreed to it at once. He believed it no small matter in education +that a youth should have money at his disposal; and his wife agreed, +with a pang, to what he counted a reasonable sum for Richard's board. +But she would not hear of his paying for his lodging; that was more than +the mother heart could bear: it would be like yielding that he was not +her very own child! + +The trouble remained, that a long week must elapse before he could touch +any wages, and he dared not borrow for fear of questions: there was no +help! + +At night, the moment his head was on the pillow, the strain of his +stoicism gave way. Then first he felt alone, utterly alone; and the +loneliness went into his soul, and settled there, a fearful entity. The +strong stoic, the righteous unbeliever burst into a passion of tears. +Sure they were the gift of the God he did not know!--say rather, of +the God he knew a little, without knowing that he knew him--and they +somewhat cooled his burning heart. But the fog of a fresh despair +streamed up from the rain, and its clouds closed down upon him. What was +left him to live for! what to keep his heart beating! what to make +life a living thing! Sunned and showered too much, it was faded and +colourless! Why must he live on, as in a poor dream, without even the +interest of danger!--for where life is worth nothing, danger is gone, +and danger is the last interest of life! All was gray! Nothing was, but +the damp and chill of the grave! No cloak of insanest belief, of dullest +mistake, would henceforth hide any more the dreary nakedness of the +skeleton, life! The world lay in clearest, barest, coldest light, its +hopeless deceit and its misery all revealed! It was well that a grumous +fog pervaded the air, each atom a spike in a vesicle of darkness! it was +well that no summer noon was blazing about the world! At least there +was no mockery now! the world was not pretending to be happy! was not +helping the demon of laughter to jeer at the misery of men! Oh, the +hellish thing, life! Oh this devilish thing, existence!--a mask with no +face behind it! a look with no soul that looked!--a bubble blown out of +lies with the breath of a liar! Words! words! words! Lies! lies! lies! + +All of a sudden he was crying, as if with a loud voice from the bottom +of his heart, though never a sound rose through his throat, “Oh thou who +didst make me, if thou art anywhere, if there be such a one as I cry +to, unmake me again; undo that which thou hast done; tear asunder and +scatter that which thou hast put together! Be merciful for once, and +kill me. Let me cease to exist--rather, let me cease to die. Will not +plenty of my kind remain to satisfy thy soul with torment!” + +Up towered a surge of shame at his poltroonery; he prayed for his +own solitary release, and abandoned his fellows to the maker of their +misery! + +“No!” he cried aloud, “I will not! I will not pray for that! I will not +fare better than my fellows!--Oh God, pity--if thou hast any pity, or +if pity can be born of any prayer--pity thy creatures! If thou art +anywhere, speak to me, and let me hear thee. If thou art God, if thou +livest, and carest that I suffer, and wouldst help me if thou couldst, +then I will live, and bear, and wait; only let me know that thou art, +and art good, and not cruel. If I had but a friend that would stand by +me, and talk to me a little, and help me! I have no one, no one, God, to +speak to! and if thou wilt not hear, then there is nothing! Oh, be! be! +God, I pray thee, exist! Thou knowest my desolation--for surely thou art +desolate, with no honest heart to love thee!” + +He thought of Barbara, and ceased: _she_ loved God! + +A silence came down upon his soul. Ere it passed he was asleep, and knew +no more till the morning waked him--to sorrow indeed, but from a dream +of hope. + +On a few-keyed finger-board, yet with multitudinous change, life struck +every interval betwixt keen sorrow, lethargic gloom, and grayest hope, +and the days passed and passed. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. _TO BE REDEEMED, ONE MUST REDEEM_. + +The moment he received his wages from his father at the end of the week, +Richard set out for Everilda street, Clerkenwell, a little anxious at +the thought of encountering the dreadful mother, but hoping she would be +out of the way. + +When he reached the place, he found no one at home. He could not go back +with his mission unaccomplished, and hung about, keeping a sharp watch +on each end of the street, and on the approaches to it that he passed in +walking to and fro. + +He had not waited long before Arthur appeared, stooping like an aged +man, and moving slowly He was in the same shabby muffler as of old. His +face brightened when he saw his friend, but a fit of coughing prevented +him for some time from returning his salutation. + +“When did you have your dinner?” asked Richard. + +“I had something to eat in the middle of the day,” he answered feebly; +“and when Alice comes, she will perhaps bring something with her; but we +don't care much about eating.--We've got out of the way of it somehow!” + he added with an unreal laugh. + +“It's no wonder you can't get rid of your cold!” returned Richard. “Come +along, and have something to eat.” + +“I can't have Ally come home and not find me!” objected Arthur. + +“You shall put something in your pocket for her!” suggested Richard. + +He seemed to yield; but his every motion was full of indecision. Richard +took his arm. + +“Do you know any place near,” he asked, “where we could get some +supper?” + +“No, I'm afraid I don't,” answered Arthur. + +“Then you go in and rest, while I go and see,” returned Richard. + +He searched for some time, but came upon no place where a man could even +sit down. At last he found a coffee-shop, and went to fetch Arthur. + +He found him stretched on his bed, but he rose at once to accompany +him--with the more difficulty that he had yielded to his weariness and +lain down. They managed however to reach their goal, and the sight of +food waking a little hunger, the poor fellow did pretty well for one +who looked so ill. As he ate he revived, and by and by began to talk a +little: he had never been much of a talker--had never had food enough +for talking. + +“It's very good of you, Richard!” he said. “I suppose you know all about +it!” + +“I don't. What is it? Anything new?” + +“No, nothing! It's all so miserable!” + +“It's not all miserable,” answered Richard, “so long as we are +brothers!” + +The tears came in Arthur's eyes. Their mother had repented telling them +the truth about Richard, and pretended to have discovered that, while +sir Wilton was indeed Richard's father, Mrs. Tuke was after all his +mother. + +“Yes, that is good,” he said, “though it be only in misfortune! But I +am a wretched creature, and no good to anybody; you are a strong man, +Richard; I shall never be worth calling your brother!” + +“You can do one great thing for me.” + +“What is that?” + +“Live and grow well.” + +“I wish I could; but that is just what I can't do. I'm on my way home.” + +“I would gladly go with you!” + +“Why?” + +Richard made no answer, and silence followed. Arthur got up. + +“Ally will be home,” he said, “and thinking me too ill to get along!” + +“Let's go then!” said Richard. + +When they entered Everilda street, they saw Alice on the door-step, +looking anxiously up and down. The moment she caught sight of them, she +ran away along the street. Richard would have followed her, but Arthur +held him, and said, + +“Never mind her to-night, Richard! She don't know that you know. I will +tell her; and when you come again, you will find her different. Go now, +and come as soon as you can--at least, I mean, as soon as you like.” + +“I will come to-morrow,” answered Richard. “Do you want me to go now?” + +“It would be better for Alice. I will go to the end of the street, and +she will see me from where she is hiding, and come. She always does.” + +“Is she in the way of hiding then?” + +“Yes, when my mother is--” + +“Well, good-bye!” said Richard. “But where shall I find you to-morrow!” + +They arranged their meeting, and parted. + +The next day, they found a better place for their meal. Richard thought +it better not to go quite home with Arthur, but, having learned from him +where Alice worked, and at what hour she left, went the following night +to wait for her not far from the shop. + +At last she came along, looking very thin and pale, but she shone up +when she saw him, and joined him without the least hesitation. + +“How do you think Arthur is?” he asked. + +“I've not seen him so well for ever so long,” she answered. “But that is +not saying much!” she added with a sigh. + +They walked along together. With a taste of happiness, say once a +week, Alice would have been a merry girl. She was so content to be with +Richard that she never heeded where he was taking her. But when she +found him going into a shop with a ham in the window, she drew back. + +“No, Richard,” she said; “I can't let you feed me and Arthur too! Indeed +I can't! It would be downright robbery!” + +“Nonsense!” returned Richard; “I want some supper, and you must keep me +company!” + +“You must excuse me!” she insisted. “It's all right for Arthur: he's +ill; but for _me_, I couldn't look myself in the face in the glass if I +let you feed _me_--a strong girl, fit for anything!” + +“Now look here!” said Richard; “I must come to the point, and you must +be reasonable! Ain't you my sister?--and don't I know you haven't enough +to eat?” + +“Who told you that?” + +“No one. Any fool could see it with half an eye!” + +“Artie has been telling tales!” + +“Not one! Just listen to me. I earn so much a week now, and after paying +for everything, have something over to spend as I please. If you refuse +me for a brother, say so, and I will leave you alone: why should a man +tear his heart out looking on where he can't help!” + +She stood motionless, and made him no answer. + +“Look here!” he said; “there is the money for our supper: if you will +not go with me and eat it, I will throw it in the street.” + +With her ingrained feeling of the preciousness of money Alice did not +believe him. + +“Oh, no, Richard! you would never do that!” she said. + +The same instant the coins rang faintly from the middle of the street, +and a cab passed over them. Alice gave a cry as of bodily pain, and +started to pick them up. Richard held her fast. + +“It's your supper, Richard!” she almost shrieked, and struggled to get +away after the money. + +“Yes,” he answered; “and yours goes after it, except you come in and +share it with me!” + +As he spoke he showed her his hand with shillings in it. + +She turned and entered the shop. Richard ordered a good meal. + +Alice stopped in the middle of her supper, laid down her knife and fork, +and burst out crying. + +“What _is_ the matter?” said Richard, alarmed. + +“I can't bear to think of that money! I must go and look for it!” sobbed +Alice. + +Richard laughed, the first time for days. + +“Alice,” he said, “the money was well spent: I got my own way with it!” + +As she ate and drank, a little colour rose in her face, and on Richard +fell a shadow of the joy of his creator, beholding his work, and seeing +it good. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. _A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN_. + +Some men hunt their fellows to prey upon them, and fill their own greedy +maws; Richard hunted and caught his brother and sister that he might +feed them with the labour of his hands. I fear there was therefore a +little more for the mother to guzzle, but it is of small consequence +whether those that go down the hill arrive at the foot a week sooner or +later. To Arthur and Alice, their new-found brother, strong and loving, +was as an angel from high heaven. It was no fault in Richard that he did +not find a correspondent comfort in them. It did in truth comfort him +to see them improve in looks and in strength; but they had not many +thoughts to share with him--had little coin for spiritual commerce. Even +their religion, like that of most who claim any, had little shape or +colour. What there was of it was genuine, which made it infinitely +precious, but it was much too weak to pass over to the help of another. +Divine aid, however, of a different sort, was waiting for him. + +Hitherto he had heard little or no music. The little was from +the church-organ, and his not unjustifiable prejudice against its +surroundings, had disinclined him to listen when it spoke. The intellect +of the youth had come to the front, and the higher powers to which +art is ministrant, had remained much undeveloped, shut in darkened +palace-rooms, where a ray of genial impulse not often entered. For the +highest of those powers, the imagination, without which no discovery of +any grandeur is made even in the realms of science, dwells in the halls +of aspiration, outlook, desire, and hope, and round the windows and +filling the air of these, hung the dry dust-cloud of Richard's negation. +But when Love, with her attendant Sorrow, came, they opened wide all the +doors and windows of them to what might enter. Hitherto all his poetry, +even what he produced, had come to Richard at second-hand, that is, from +the inspiration of books; its flowers were of the moon, not of the sun; +they sprang under the pale reflex light of other souls: for genuine life +of any and every sort, the immediate inspiration of the Almighty is the +one essential, and for that, Sorrow and Love now made a way. + +First of all, the lower winds and sidelong rays of art, all from the +father of lights, crept in, able now to work for his perfect will. For +when a man has once begun to live, then have the thoughts and feelings +of other men, and every art in which those thoughts or feelings are +embodied by them, a sevenfold power for the strengthening and rousing +of the divine nature in him. And as the divine nature is roused, the +diviner nature, the immediate God, enters to possess it. + +A gentleman who employed Richard, happened one day, in conversation with +him as he pursued his work, to start the subject of music, and made a +remark which, notwithstanding Richard's ignorance, found sufficient way +into his mind to make him think over what little experience he had had +of sweet sounds, ere he made his reply. When made, it revealed in +truth his ignorance, but his modesty as well, and his capacity for +understanding--with the result that the gentleman, who was not only a +lover of music but a believer in it, said to him in return things which +roused in him such a desire to put them to the test for verification or +disapproval, that he went the next Monday night to the popular concert +at St. James's Hall. In the crowd that waited more than an hour at the +door of the orchestra to secure a shilling-place, there was not one that +knew so little of music as he; but there never had been in it one whose +ignorance was more worthy of destruction. The first throbbing flash of +the violins cleft his soul as lightning cleaves a dark cloud, and set +his body shivering as with its thunder--and lo, a door was opened in +heaven! and, like the writhings of a cloud in the grasp of a heavenly +wind, all the discords of spirit-pain were breaking up, changing, and +solving themselves into the song of the violins! After that, he went +every Monday night to the same concert-room. It was his church, the +mount of his ascension, the place whence he soared--no, but was lifted +up to what was as yet his highest consciousness of being. All that was +best and simplest in him came wide awake as he sat and listened. What +fact did the music prove? None whatever. Yet would not the logic of all +science have persuaded Richard that the sea of mood and mystic response, +tossing his soul hither and thither on its radiant waters, as, deep unto +deep, it answered the marching array of live waves, fashioned one by one +out of the still air, marshalled and ranked and driven on in symmetric +relation and order by those strange creative powers with their curious +symbols, throned at their godlike labour--that the answer of his soul, +I say, was but an illusion, the babble of a sleeping child in reply to +a question never put. If it was an illusion, how came it that such +illusion was possible? If an illusion, whence its peculiar bliss--a +bliss aroused by law imperative that ruled its factors, yet bore scant +resemblance to the bliss? What he felt, he knew that he felt, and +knew that he had never caused it, never commanded its presence, never +foreseen its arrival, never known of its possible existence. The feeling +was _in him_, but had been waked by some power _beyond him_, for he was +not himself even present at its origin! The voice of that power was a +voice all sweetness and persuading, yet a voice of creation, calling +up a world of splendour and delight, the beams of whose chambers were +indeed laid upon the waters, but had there a foundation the less lively +earth could not afford. For the very essence of the creative voice, +working wildest delirium of content, was law that could not be broken, +the very law of the thought of God himself. Law is life, for God is law, +and God is life. Law is the root and the stalk of life, beauty is the +flower of life, and joy is its odour; but life itself is love. The +flower and its odour are given unto men; the root and stalk they may +search into if they will; the giver of life they must know, or they +cannot live with his life, they cannot share in the life eternal. + +One night, after many another such, he sat entranced, listening to the +song of a violin, alone and perfect, soaring and sailing the empyrean +unconvoyed,--and Barbara in his heart was listening with him. He had +given up hope of seeing her again in this world, but not all hope of +seeing her again somewhere; and her image had not grown less dear, I +should rather say less precious to him. The song, like a heavenly lark, +folded its wings while yet high in the air, and ceased: its nest was +somewhere up in the blue. Should I say rather that one after one the +singing birds flitted from the strings, those telegraph wires betwixt +the seen and the unseen, and now the last lingerer was gone? All was +over, and the world was still. But the face of Barbara kept shining from +the depths of Richard's soul, as if she stood behind him, and her face +looked up reflected from its ethereal ocean. + +All at once he was aware that his bodily eyes were resting on the bodily +face of Barbara. It was as if his strong imagining of her had made her +be. His heart gave a great bound--and stood still, as if for eternity. +But the blood surged back to his brain, and he knew that together they +had been listening to the same enchanting spell, had been aloft together +in the same aether of delight: heaven is high and deep, and its lower +air is music; in the upper regions the music may pass, who knows, +merging unlost, into something endlessly better! He had felt, without +knowing it, the power of her presence; it had been ruling his thoughts! +He gazed and gazed, never taking his eyes from her but for the joy of +seeing her afresh, for the comfort of their return to their home. She +was so far off that he could gaze at will, and thus was distance a +blessing. Not seldom does removal bring the parted nearer. It is not +death alone that makes “far-distant images draw nigh,” but distance +itself is an angel of God, mediating the propinquity of souls. As he +gazed he became aware that she saw him, and that she knew that he saw +her. How he knew it he could not have told. There was no change on her +face, no sign of recognition, but he knew that she saw and knew. In his +modesty he neither perceived nor imagined more. His heart received no +thrill from the pleasure that throbbed in the heart of the lovely lady +at sight of the poor sorrowful workman; neither did she in her modesty +perceive on what a throne of gems she sat in his heart. She saw that his +cheek was pale and thin, and that his eyes were larger and brighter; she +little thought how the fierce sun of agony had ripened his soul since +they parted. + +For the rest of the concert, the music had sunk to a soft delight, +and took the second place; the delight of seeing dulled his delight in +hearing. All the rainbow claspings and weavings of strange accords, all +the wing-wafts of out-dreaming melody, seemed to him to come flickering +and floating from one creative centre--the face, and specially the eyes +of Barbara; yet the music and Barbara seemed one. The form of it that +entered by his eyes met that which entered by his ears, and they were +one ere he noted a difference. Barbara was the music, and the music was +Barbara. He saw her with his ears; he heard her with his eyes. But +as the last sonata sank to its death, suddenly the face and the tones +parted company, and he knew that his eyes and her face must part next, +and the same moment her face was already far away. She had left him; she +was looking for her fan, and preparing to go. + +He was not far from the door. He hurried softly out, plunged into the +open air as into a great cool river, went round the house, and took his +stand at one of the doors, where he waited like one watching the flow +of a river of gravel for the shine of a diamond. But the flow sank to +threads and drops, and the diamond never shone. + +He walked home, nevertheless, as if he had seen an end of sorrow: how +much had been given him that night, for ever to have and to hold! Such +an hour went far to redeem the hateful thing, life! A much worse world +would be more than endurable, with its black and gray once or twice in +a century crossed by such a band of gold! Who would not plunge through +ages of vapour for one flash of such a star! Who would not dig to the +centre for one glimpse of a gem of such exhaustless fire! “But, alas, +how many for whom no golden threads are woven into the web of life!” + he said to himself as he thought of Alice and Arthur--but straightway +answered himself, saying, “Who dares assert it? The secret of a man's +life is with himself; who can speak for another!” He had himself been +miserable, and was now content--oh, how much more than content--that he +had been miserable! He was even strong to be miserable again! What might +not fall to the lot of the rest, every one of them, ere God, if there +were a God, had done with them! Who invented music? Some one must have +made the delight of it possible! With his own share in its joy he had +had nothing to do! Was Chance its grand inventor, its great ingenieur? +Why or how should Chance love loveliness that was not, and make it be, +that others might love it? Could it be a deaf God, or a being that did +not care and would not listen, that invented music? No; music did not +come of itself, neither could the source of it be devoid of music! + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. _THE CARRIAGE_. + +Before the next Monday, he had learned the outlets of the hall, and the +relations of its divisions to its doors. But he fared no better, for +whether again he mistook the door or not, he did not see Barbara come +out. He had been with her, however, through all the concert; there was +reason to hope she would be often present, and every time there would +be a chance of his getting near her! The following Monday, nevertheless, +she was not in the house: had she been, he said to himself, his eyes +would of themselves have found her. + +A fortnight passed, and Richard had not again seen Barbara. He began to +think she must have gone home. A gentleman was with her the first night, +whom he took for her father; the second, Arthur Lestrange was by her +side: neither of them had he seen since. + +Then the thought suggested itself that she might have come to London +to prepare for her marriage with Mr. Lestrange. She must of course be +married some day! He had always taken that for granted, but now, for +the first time somehow, the thought came near enough to burn. He did not +attempt to analyze his feelings; he was too miserable to care for his +feelings. The thought was as terrible as if it had been quite new. It +was not a live thought before; now it was alive and until now he had not +known misery. That Barbara should die, seemed nothing beside it! Death +was no evil! Whether there was a world beyond it or not, it was the one +friend of the race! In death at last, outworn, tortured humanity would +find repose!--or if not, what followed could not, at worst, be worse +than what went before! It must be better, for the one misery of miseries +would be to live in the same world with Barbara married: She was out of +sight of him, far as princess or queen--or angel, if there were such a +being; but the thought that she should marry a common, outside man, who +knew no more what things were precious than the lowest fellow in the +slums, was a pain he could neither stifle nor endure. Could a woman like +Barbara for an instant entertain the notion? If she loved a man worthy +of her, then--he thought, as so many have for a moment thought--he +could bear the torture of it! But for such patience in prospect men are +generally indebted to the fact that the man is not likely to appear, or, +at least, has not yet come in sight. In vain he persuaded himself that +Barbara would no more listen to such a suitor, than a man could +ever show himself on the level of her love. That Barbara would marry +Lestrange grew more and more likely as he regarded the idea. Mortgrange +and Wylder Hall were conveniently near, and he had heard his grandfather +suppose that Barbara must one day inherit the latter! The thought was a +growing torment. His heart sank into a draw-well of misery, out of which +the rope of thinking could draw up nothing but suicide. But as often as +the bucket rose thus laden, Richard cast its content from him. It was +cowardly to hide one's head in the sand of death. So long as he was able +to stand, why should he lie down? If a morrow was on the way, why not +see what the morrow would bring? why not look the apparition in the +face, though for him it brought no dawn! + +Once more the loud complaint against life awoke and raged. What an evil, +what a wrong was life! Who had dared force the thing upon him? What +being, potent in ill, had presumed to call him from the blessed regions +of negation, the solemn quiet of being and knowing nothing, and compel +him to live without, nay against his will, in misery such as only an +imagination keen to look upon suffering, could have embodied or even +invented? Alas, there was no help! If he lifted his hand against +the life he hated, he might but rush into a region of torture more +exquisite! For might not the life-compelling tyrant, offended that he +should desire to cease, fix him in eternal beholding of his love and his +hate folded in one--to sicken, yet never faint, in aeonian pain, such +as life essential only could feel! He rebelled against the highest as if +the highest were the lowest--as if the power that _could_ create a heart +for bliss, might gloat on its sufferings. + +Again and again he would take the side of God against himself: but +always there was the undeniable, the inexplicable misery! Whence came +it? It could not come from himself, for he hated it? and if God did not +cause, yet he could prevent it! Then he remembered how blessed he had +been but a few days before; how ready to justify God; how willing +to believe he had reason in all he did: alas for his nature, for his +humanity! clothed in his own joy, he was generous to trust God with the +bliss of others; the cold blast of the world once again swept over him, +and he stood complaining against him more bitterly than ever. + +It is a notable argument, surely, against the existence of God, that +they who believe in him, believe in him so wretchedly! So many carry +themselves to him like peevish children! Richard half believed in God, +only to complain of him altogether! Were it not better to deny him +altogether, saying that such things being, he cannot be, than to murmur +and rebel as against one high and hard? + +But I bethink me: is it not better to complain if one but complain to +God himself? Does he not then draw nigh to God with what truth is in +him? And will he not then fare as Job, to whom God drew nigh in return, +and set his heart at rest? + +For him who complains and comes not near, who shall plead?--The Son of +the Father, saying, “They know not what they do.” + +He began to wonder whether even an all-mighty and all-good God would be +able to contrive such a world as no somebody in it would ever complain +of. What if he had plans too large for the vision of men to take in, and +they were uncomfortable to their own blame, because, not seeing them, +they would trust him for nothing? He knew unworthy men full of complaint +against an economy that would not let them live like demons, and be +blessed as seraphs! Why should not a man at least wait and see what +the possible being was about to do with him, perhaps for him, before he +accused or denied him? At worst he would be no worse for the waiting! + +His thinking was stopped by a sudden flood of self-contempt. Was Barbara +to live alone that he might think of her in peace! He was a selfish, +disgraceful, degraded animal, deserving all he suffered, and ten times +more! What did it matter whether _he_ was happy or not, if it was well +with her! Was he a man, and could he not endure! Here was a possible +nobility! here a whole world wherein to be divine! A man was free to +sacrifice his happiness: for him, he had nothing but his crowned sorrow; +he would sacrifice that! Had anyone ever sacrificed his sorrow to his +love? Would it not be a new and strange sacrifice? To know that he +suffered would make her a little unhappy: for her sake he would _not_ be +unhappy! He would at least for her sake fight with his grief; he would +live to love her still, if never more to look on her face. In after +eternal years, if ever once more they met, he would tell her how for her +sake he had lived in peace, and neither died nor gone mad! Yea, for her +sake, he would still seek her God, if haply he might find him! Was there +not a possible hope that he would justify to him, even in his heart, +his ways with men, and his ways with himself among his fellows? What if +there was a way so much higher than ours, as to include all the seeming +right and seeming wrong in one radiance of righteousness! The idea was +scarce conceivable; it was not one he could illustrate to himself; but, +as a thought transcending flesh and blood, better and truer than what +_we_ are able to think of as truth, he would try to hold by it! Things +that we are right in thinking bad, must be bad to God as well as to us; +but may there not be things so far above us, that we cannot take them +in, and they seem bad because they are so far above us in goodness that +we see them partially and untruly? There must be room in his wisdom +for us to mistake! He would try to trust! He would say, “If thou art my +father, be my father, and comfort thy child. Perhaps thou hast some way! +Perhaps things are not as thou wouldst have them, and thou art doing +what can be done to set them right! If thou art indeed true to thy own, +it were hard not to be believed--hard that one of thine own should +not trust thee, should not give thee time to make things clear, should +behave to thee as if thou wouldst not explain, when it is that we are +unable to understand!” + +He was thinking with himself thus, as he walked home, late one Monday +night, from the concert, to which had come none of the singing birds +of his own forests to meet and make merry with the song-birds of the +violins. Like a chaos of music without form and void, the sweet sounds +had stormed and billowed against him, and he had left the door of his +late paradise hardly in better mood than if it had been the church of +the Rev. Theodore Gosport, who for the traditions of men made the word +of God of small effect! + +He was walking westward, with his eyes on the ground, along the broad +pavement on the house-side of Piccadilly, lost half in misery, half +in thought, when he was stopped by a little crowd about an awning +that stretched across the footway. The same instant rose a murmur of +admiration, and down the steps from the door came tripping, the very +Allegra of motion, the same Barbara to whose mould his being seemed to +have shaped itself. He stood silent as death, but something made her +cast a look on him, and she saw the large eyes of his suffering fixed on +her. She gave a short musical cry, and turning darted through the crowd, +leaving her escort at the foot of the steps. + +“Richard!” she cried, and catching hold of his hand, laid her other hand +on his shoulder--then suddenly became aware of the gazing faces, not all +pleasant to look upon, that came crowding closer about them. + +She pulled him toward a brougham that stood at the curbstone. + +“Jump in,” she whispered. Then turning to the gentleman, who in a +bewildered way fancied she had caught a prodigal brother in the crowd, +“Good-night, Mr. Cleveland,” she said: “thank you!” + +One moment Richard hesitated; but he saw that neither place nor time +allowed anything but obedience, and when she turned again, he was +already seated. + +“Home!” she said to the coachman as she got in, for she had no +attendant. + +“I must talk fast,” she began, “and so must you; we have not far to go +together.--Why did you not write to me?” + +“I did write.” + +“Did you!” exclaimed Barbara. + +“I did indeed.” + +“Then what could you think of me?” + +“I thought nothing you would not like me to think. I was sure there was +an explanation!” + +“That of course! You knew that!--But how ill you look!” + +“It is from not seeing you any more at the concerts,” answered Richard. + +“Tell me your address, and I will write to you. But do not write to me. +When shall you be at the hall again?” + +“Next Monday. I am there every Monday.” + +“I shall be there, and will take your answer from your hand in the crush +as I come out by the Regent-street door.” + +She pulled the coachman's string. + +“Now you must go,” she said. “Thank God I have seen you! Tell me when +you write if you know anything of Alice.” + +She gave him her hand. He got out, closed the door, took off his hat, +and stood for minutes uncovered in the cold clear night, hardly sure +whether he had indeed been side by side with Barbara, or in a heavenly +trance. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. _RICHARD'S DILEMMA._ + +He turned and walked home--but with a heart how different! The world was +folded in winter and night, but in his heart the sun was shining, and +it made a wonder and a warmth at the heart of every crystal of the frost +that spangled and feathered and jewel-crusted rail and tree! The misty +moon was dreaming of spring, and almond blossoms, and nightingales.--But +did Barbara know about him? Had Alice told the terrible secret! If +she knew, and did not withdraw her friendship, he could bear +anything--almost anything! But he would be happy now, would keep happy +as long as he could, and try to be happy when he could not! She was with +him all the way home. Every step was a delight. Foot lingered behind +foot as he came; now each was eager to pass the other. + +He slept a happy sleep, and in the morning was better than for many +a day--so much better that his mother, who had been watching him with +uneasiness, and wondering whether she ought not to bring matters to a +crisis, began to feel at rest about him. She had not a suspicion of what +now troubled him the most! A little knowledge is not, but the largest +half-knowledge is a dangerous thing! He knew who was his father, but he +did not know who was not his mother; and from this half-knowledge rose +the thickest of the cloud that yet overshadowed him. He had been proud +that he came of such good people as his father and mother, but it was +not the notion of shame to himself that greatly troubled him; it was +the new feeling about his mother. He did not think of her as one to be +blamed, but as one too trusting, and so deceived; he never felt unready +to stand up for her. What troubled him was that she must always know +that unspoken-of something between her and her son, that his mother must +feel shame before him. He could not bear to think of it. If only she +would say something to him, that he might tell her she was his own +precious mother, whatever had befallen her! that for her sake he could +spurn the father that begot him! Already had come this good of Mrs. +Manson's lie, that Richard felt far more the goodness of his mother to +him, and loved her the better that he believed himself her shame. It is +true that his love increased upon a false idea, but the growth gained +by his character could not be lost, and so his love would not grow +less--for no love, that is loved, gave God's, can clothe warm enough +the being around whom it gathers. And when he learned the facts of the +story, he would not find that he had given his aunt more love than she +deserved at his heart. + +As soon as the next day's work was over, Richard sat down to write to +Barbara. But he had no sooner taken the pen in his fingers, than he +became doubtful: what was he to say? He could not open his heart about +any of the things that troubled him most! Putting aside the recurrent +dread of her own marriage, how could he mention his mother's wrong and +his own shame to a girl so young? She must be aware that such things +were, but how was he, a huge common fellow, to draw near her loveliness +with such a tale in his mouth! It would be a wrong to his own class, to +his own education! for would it not show the tradesman, or the artisan, +whichever they called him, as coarse, and unlit for the company of his +social superiors? It would go to prove that in no sense could one of +his nurture be regarded as a gentleman! And were there no such reason +against it, how could he, even to Barbara, speak of his mother's hidden +pain, of his mother's humiliation! It would be treachery! He would be as +a spy that had hid himself in a holy place! The thing she could not tell +him, how could he tell anyone! On the other hand, if he did not let her +know the sad fact, would he not be receiving and cherishing Barbara's +friendship on false pretences? He was not what he now seemed to her--and +to be other to Barbara than he seemed, was too terrible! Still and +again, he was bound to do her the justice of believing that she would +not regard him differently because of what he could not help, and would +justify his silence for his mother's sake. She would, in her great +righteousness, be the first to cry out upon the social rule that visited +the sins of the fathers on the mothers and children, and not on the +fathers themselves! If then disclosure would make no difference to +Barbara, he might, he concluded, let the thing rest--for the time at +least--assured of her sisterly sympathy. And with that he bethought +him that she had asked news of Alice, and it seemed to him strange. +For Alice had not told him that, unable to keep the money she sent from +falling into the hands of her mother and going in drink, unwilling to +expose her mother, and incapable of letting Barbara spend her money +so, she had contrived to have her remittances returned, as if they had +changed their dwelling, and their new address was unknown. + +He wrote therefore what he thought would set her at ease about them; and +then, after thinking and thinking, yielded to the dread lest his heart +should make him say things he ought not, and ended with a little poem +that had come to him a night or two before. + +This was the poem: + + If there lie a still, pure sorrow + At the heart of everything, + If never shall dawn a morrow + With healing upon its wing, + Then down I kneel to my sorrow, + And say, Thou art my king! + From old pale joy I borrow + A withered song to sing! + And with heart entire and thorough, + To a calm despair I cling, + And, freedman of old king Sorrow, + Away Hope's fetters fling! + +That was all--and not much, either as poetry, or as consolation to one +that loved him; but sometimes, like that ghastly shroud of Icelandic +fable, the poem will rise and wrap itself around the poet. + +As Richard closed his envelope, he remembered, with a pang of +self-reproach, that the hour of his usual meeting with Alice was past, +and that Arthur too was in danger of going to bed hungry, for his custom +was to put her brother's supper in Alice's handbag. He set out at once +for Clerkenwell--on foot notwithstanding his haste, for he was hoarding +every penny to get new clothes for Arthur, who was not only much in want +of them for warmth, but in risk of losing his situation because of his +shabby appearance. + +His anxiety to reach the house before the mother came in, spurred him to +his best speed. He halted two minutes on the way to buy some slices of +ham and some rolls, and ran on again. It was a frosty night, but by the +time he reached Everilda-street, he was far from cold. He was rewarded +by finding his brother and sister at home, alone, and not too hungry. + +He had just time to empty his pockets, and receive a kiss from Alice in +return, when they heard the uncertain step of their mother coming up the +stair, stopping now and then, and again resuming the ascent. Alice went +to watch which door she would turn to when she reached the top, that +Richard might go out by the other, for the two rooms communicated. But +just as she was entering Arthur's room, Mrs. Manson changed her mind, +and turned to the other door, so that Richard was caught in the very act +of making his exit. She flew at him, seized him by the hair, and began +to pull and cuff him, abusing him as the true son of his father, who +did everything on the sly, and never looked an honest woman in the face. +Richard said never a word, but let her tug and revile till there was no +more strength in her, when she let him go, and dropped into a chair. + +The three went half-way down the stair together. + +“Don't mind her,” said Alice with a great sob. “I hope she didn't hurt +you much, Richard!” + +“Not a bit,” answered Richard. + +“Poor mother!” sighed Arthur; “she's not in her right mind! We're in +constant terror lest she drop down dead!” + +“She's not a very good mother to you!” said Richard. + +“No, but that has nothing to do with loving her,” answered Alice; “and +to think of her dying like that, and going straight to the bad place! +Oh, Richard, what _shall_ I do! It turns me crazy to think of it!” + +The door above them opened, and the fierce voice of the mother fell upon +them; but it was broken by a fit of hiccupping, and she went in again, +slamming the door behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. _THE DOORS OF HARMONY AND DEATH_. + +That night Richard could not rest. His brain wrought unceasingly. + +He had caught cold and was feverish. After his hot haste to reach his +brother and sister, he had stood on the stair till his temperature sank +low. When at length he slept, he kept starting awake from troublous +dreams, and this went on through the night. In the morning he felt +better, and rose and set to his work, shivering occasionally. All the +week he was unwell, and coughed, but thought the attack an ordinary +cold. When Sunday came, he kept his bed, in the hope of getting rid of +it; but the next day he was worse. He insisted on getting up, however: +he must not seem to be ill, for he was determined, if he could stand, +to go to the concert! What with weariness and shortness of breath and +sleepiness, however, it was all he could do to stick to his work. But +he held on till the evening, when, watching his opportunity, he slipped +from the house and made his way, with the help of an omnibus, to the +hall. + +It was dire work waiting till the door to the orchestra was opened. +The air was cold, his lungs heavily oppressed, and his languor almost +overpowering. But Paradise was within that closed door, and he was +passing through the pains of death to enter into bliss! When at length +it seemed to yield to his prayers, he almost fell in the rush, but the +good-humoured crowd itself succoured the pale youth, and helped him in: +to look at him was to see that he was ill! + +The moment the music began, he forgot every discomfort. For, with the +first chord of the violins, as if ushered in and companied by the angels +themselves of the sweet sounds, Barbara came flitting down the centre of +the wide space toward her usual seat. The rows of faces that filled the +area were but the waves on which floated the presence of Barbara; the +music was the natural element of her being; it flowed from her as from +its fountain, radiated from her like odour. It fashioned around her a +nimbus of sound, like that made by the light issuing from the blessed +ones, as beheld by Dante, which revealed their presence but hid them in +its radiance, as the moth is hid in the silk of its cocoon. Richard felt +entirely well. The warmth entered into him, and met the warmth generated +in him. All was peace and hope and bliss, quaintest mingling of +expectation and fruition. Even Arthur Lestrange beside Barbara could not +blast his joy. He saw him occasionally offer some small attention; he +saw her carelessly accept or refuse it. Barbara gazed at him anxiously, +he thought; but he did not know he looked ill; he had forgotten himself. + +When the concert was over, he hastened from the orchestra. The moment +he issued, the cold wind seized and threatened to strangle him, but he +conquered in the struggle, and reached the human torrent debouching in +Regent-street. Against it he made gradual way, until he stood near the +inner door of the hall. In a minute or two he saw her come, slowly with +the crowd, her hand on Arthur's arm, her eyes anxiously searching for +Richard. The moment they found him, her course took a drift toward him, +and her face grew white as his, for she saw more plainly that he was +ill. They edged nearer and nearer; their hands met through the crowd; +their letters were exchanged, and without a word they parted. As Barbara +reached the door, she turned one moment to look for him, and he saw a +depth of care angelic in her eyes. Arthur turned too and saw him, +but Richard was so changed he did not recognize him, and thought the +suffering look of a stranger had roused the sympathy of his companion. + +How he got home, Richard could not have told. Ere he reached the house, +he was too ill to know anything except that he had something precious in +his possession. He managed to get to bed--not to leave it for weeks. A +severe attack of pneumonia had prostrated him, and he knew nothing of +his condition or surroundings. He had not even opened his letter. He +remembered at intervals that he had a precious thing somewhere, but +could not recall what it was. + +When he came to himself after many days, it was with a wonderful delight +of possession, though whether the object possessed was a thing, or a +thought, or a feeling, or a person, he could not distinguish. + +“Where is it?” he said, nor knew that he spoke till he heard his own +voice. + +“Under your pillow,” answered his mother. + +He turned his eyes, and saw her face as he had never seen it +before--pale, and full of yearning love and anxious joy. There was a +gentleness and depth in its expression that was new to him. The divine +motherhood had come nearer the surface in her boy's illness. + +Partly from her anxiety about what she had done and what she had yet to +do, the show of her love had, as the boy grew up, gradually retired; her +love burned more, and shone less. If Jane Tuke had been able to let her +love appear in such forms as suited its strength, I doubt whether the +teaching of his father would have had much power upon Richard; certainly +he would have been otherwise impressed by the faith of his mother. He +would have been prejudiced in favour of the God she believed in, and +would have sought hard to account for the ways attributed to him. None +the less would it have been through much denial and much suffering that +he arrived at anything worth calling faith; while the danger would have +been great of his drifting about in such indifference as does not care +that God should be righteous, and is ready to call anything just which +men in office declare God does, without concern whether it be right or +wrong, or whether he really does it or not--without concern indeed about +anything at all that is God's. He would have had phantoms innumerable +against him. He would have supposed the Bible said things about God +which it does not say, things which, if it did say them, ought to be +enough to make any honest man reject the notion of its authority as an +indivisible whole. He would have had to encounter all the wrong notions +of God, dropped on the highway of the universe, by the nations that went +before in the march of humanity. He would have found it much harder to +work out his salvation, to force his freedom from the false forms given +to truth by interpreters of little faith, for they would have seemed +born in him because loved into him. + +“What did you say, mother dear?” he returned, all astray, seeming to +have once known several things, but now to know nothing at all. + +“It is under your pillow, Richard,” she said again, very tenderly. + +“What is it, mother? Something seems strange. I don't know what to ask +you. Tell me what it means.” + +“You have been very ill, my boy; that is what it means.” + +“Have I been out of my mind?” + +“You have been wandering with the fever, nothing more.” + +“I have been thinking so many things, and they all seemed real!--And you +have been nursing me all the long time?” + +“Who should have been nursing you, Richard? Do you think I would let any +one else nurse my own child? Didn't I nurse the--” + +She stopped; she had been on the point of saying--“the mother that bore +you?” Her love of her dead sister was one with her love of that sister's +living child. + +He lay silent for a time, thinking, or rather trying to think, for he +felt like one vainly endeavouring to get the focus of a stereoscopic +picture. His mind kept going away from him. He knew himself able +to think, yet he could not think. It was a revelation to him of our +helplessness with our own being, of our absolute ignorance of the modes +in which our nature works--of what it is, and what we can and cannot do +with it. + +“Shall I get it for you, dear?” said his mother. + +The morning after the concert, he had taken Barbara's letter from under +his pillow, and would not let it out of his hand. His mother, fearing +he would wear it to pieces, once and again tried to remove it; but the +moment she touched it, he would cry out and strike; and when in his +restless turning he dropped it, he showed himself so miserable that +she could not but put it in his hand again, when he would lie perfectly +quiet for a while. Dreaming of Barbara however, I fancy, he at length +forgot her letter, and his mother again put it under his pillow. With +the Lord, we shall forget even the gospel of John. + +She drew out the crumpled, frayed envelope, and gave it him. The moment +he touched it, everything came back to him. + +“Now I remember, mother!” he cried. “Thank you, mother! I will try to be +a better boy to you. I am sorry I ever vexed you.” + +“You never vexed me, Richard!” said the mother-heart; “--or if ever you +did, I've forgotten it. And now that God has given you back to us, we +must see whether we can't do something better for you!” + +Richard was so weary that he did not care to ask what she meant, and in +a moment was asleep, with the letter in his hand. + +When at length he was able to read it, it caused him not a little +pleasure, and some dismay. He read that her father was determined she +should marry Mr. Lestrange; but her mother was against it; and there was +as much dissension at home as ever. She believed lady Ann had talked +her father into it, for he had not always favoured the idea. There was +indeed greater reason now why both lady Ann and her father should desire +it, for there was every likelihood of her being left sole heir to the +property, as her brother could not, the doctors said, live many months. +She was sure her mother was trying to do right, and she herself did all +she could to please her father, but nothing less than her consent to his +plans for what he called her settlement in life, would satisfy him, and +that she could not give. + +She hoped Richard was not forgetting the things they had such talks +about in the old days. If it were not for those things, she could not +now bear life, or rightly take her part in it. She was almost never +alone, and now in constant danger of interruption, so that he must not +wonder if her letter broke off abruptly, for she might be wanted any +moment. She was leading, or rather being led, a busy life of nothing at +all--a life not worth living. Her father, set on, she had no doubt, by +lady Ann, had brought her up to town while yet her mother was unable to +accompany them, so that she had had to go where, and do what lady Ann +pleased. But her mother had at last, exerting herself even beyond her +strength, come up to stand by her girl, as she said: she would have no +lady Ann interfering with her! She had herself married a man she had not +learned to respect, and she was determined her girl should make her own +choice--or keep as she was, if she pleased! She was not going to hold +her child down for them to bury in money!--And with this the letter +broke off. + +Barbara's openness about her parents was in harmony with her simplicity +and straightforwardness. She was proud of her mother and the way she put +things, therefore told all to Richard. + +He had a bad night, with delirious dreams, and for some days made little +progress. His anxiety to be well, that he might see Barbara, and learn +how things were going with her; also that he might again see Alice and +Arthur, for whom he feared much, retarded his recovery. + +“If the woman is drinking herself to death,” he said to himself, “I +wish she would be quick about it! In this world she is doing no good to +herself, and much harm to others!” But it would be the ruin, he said to +himself, of all hope in the care and love of God, to believe that she +could be allowed to live a moment longer than it was well she should +live. Then he thought how wise must be a God who, to work out his +intent, would take all the conduct, good and bad, all the endeavours of +all his children, in all their contrarieties, and out of them bring the +right thing. If he knew such a God, one to trust in absolutely, he would +lie still without one movement of fear, he would go to sleep without +one throb of anxiety about any he loved! The perfect Love would not fail +because one of his children was sick! He would try to be quiet, if only +in the hope that there was a perfect heart of hearts, thinking love to +and into and about all its creatures. If there was such a splendour, he +would either make him well, and send him out again to do for Alice and +Arthur what he could, or he would let him die and go where all he loved +would come after him--where he might perhaps help to prepare a place for +them! + +If matter be all, then must all illness be blinding; if spirit be the +deeper and be the causer, then some sicknesses may well be openers of +windows into the unseen. It is true that in one mood we are ready to +doubt the conclusions of another mood; but there is a power of judging +between the moods themselves, with a perception of their character and +nature, and the comparative clarity of insight in each; and he who is +able to judge the moods, may well judge the judgments of the moods. + +One of the benefits of illness is, that either from general weakness, +or from the brain's being cast into quiescence, habits are broken for +a time, and more simple, childlike, and natural modes of thought and +feeling, modes more approximate to primary and original modes, come +into action, whereby the right thing has a better chance. A man's +self-stereotyped thinking is unfavourable to revelation, whether through +his fellows, or direct from the divine. If there be a divine quarter, +those must be opener to its influences who are not frozen in their +own dullness, cased in their own habits, bound by their own pride to +foregone conclusions, or shut up in the completeness of human error, +theorizing beyond their knowledge and power. + +Having thus in a measure given himself up, Richard began to grow better. +It is a joy to think that a man may, while anything but sure about God, +yet come into correlation with him! How else should we be saved at all? +For God alone is our salvation; to know him is salvation. He is in us +all the time, else we could never move to seek him. It is true that only +by perfect faith in him can we be saved, for nothing but perfect faith +in him is salvation; there is no good but him, and not to be one with +that good by perfect obedience, is to be unsaved; but one better thought +concerning him, the poorest desire to draw near him, is an approach to +him. Very unsure of him we may be: how should we be sure of what we do +not yet know? but the unsureness does not nullify the approach. A man +may not be sure that the sun is risen, may not be sure that the sun will +ever rise, yet has he the good of what light there is. Richard was fed +from the heart of God without knowing that he was indeed partaking of +the spirit of God. He had been partaking of the body of God all his +life. The world had been feeding him with its beauty and essential +truth, with the sweetness of its air, and the vastness of its vault +of freedom. But now he had begun, in the words of St. Peter, to be a +partaker of the divine nature. + +It was a long time before he was strong again--in fact he never would +be so strong again in this world. His mother took him to the seaside, +where, in a warm secluded bay on the south coast, he was wrapt closer, +shall I not say, in the garments of the creating and reviving God. He +was again a child, and drew nearer to the heart of his mother than he +had ever drawn before. Believing he knew her sad secret, he set himself +to meet her every wish--which was always some form of anxiety about +himself. He spoke so gently to her, that she felt she had never until +now had him her very child. How little men think, alas, of the duty that +lies in _tone_! But Richard was started on a voyage of self-discovery. +He had begun to learn that regions he had thought wholesome, productive +portions of his world, were a _terra incognita_ of swamps and sandy +hills, haunted with creeping and stinging things. When a man finds he +is not what he thought, that he has been talking fine things, and but +imagining he belonged to their world, he is on the way to discover that +he is not up to his duty in the smallest thing. When, for very despair, +it seems impossible to go on, then he begins to know that he needs more +than himself; that there is none good but God; that, if he can gain no +help from the perfect source of his being, that being ought not to have +been given him; and that, if he does not cry for help to the father +of his spirit, the more pleasant existence is, the less he deserves it +should continue. Richard was beginning to feel in his deepest nature, +where alone it can be felt, his need of God, not merely to comfort him +in his sorrows, and so render life possible and worth living, but to +make him such that he could bear to regard himself; to make him such +that he could righteously consent to be. The only thing that can +reassure a man in respect of the mere fact of his existence, is to know +himself started on the way to grow better, with the hope of help from +the source of his being: how should he by himself better that which he +was powerless to create? All betterment must be radical: of the roots of +his being he knows nothing. His existence is God's; his betterment must +be God's too!--God's through honest exercise by man of that which is +highest in man--his own will, God's best handiwork. By actively willing +the will of God, and doing what of it lies to his doing, the man takes +the share offered him in his own making, in his own becoming. In willing +actively and operatively to be that which he was made in order to be, he +becomes creative--so far as a man may. In this kind also he becomes like +his Father in heaven. + +If a reader say Richard was too young to think thus, it only proves that +_he_ could not think so at Richard's age, and goes for little. I may be +interpreting, and rendering more definite the thoughts and feelings +that passed through him: it does not follow that I misrepresent. Many +thoughts must be made more definite in expression, else they could not +be expressed at all; many feelings are as hazy as real, and some of them +must be left to music. + +He grew in graciousness and in favour with God and his mother. Often +did she meditate whether the hour was not come for the telling of her +secret, but now one thing, now another deterred her. One time she feared +the excitement in the present state of his health; another, she judged +it unfair to the husband who had behaved with such generosity, to yield +him no part in the pleasure of the communication. + +Once, to comfort him when he seemed depressed, she ventured to say-- + +“Would you like better to go to Oxford or to Cambridge, Richard?” + +He looked up with a smile. + +“What makes you ask that, mammy?” he rejoined. + +“Perhaps it could be managed!” she answered--leaving him to suppose his +father might send him. + +“Is it because you think I shall never be able to work again?--Look at +that!” he returned, extending an arm on which the muscle had begun to +put in an appearance. + +“It's not for your strength,” she answered. “For that, you could do well +enough! But think of the dust! It's so irritating to the lungs! And then +there's the stooping all day long!” + +“Never mind, mother; I'm quite able for it, dust and all--or at least +shall soon be. We mustn't be anxious about others any more than about +ourselves. Doesn't the God you believe in tell you so?” + +“Don't you believe in him then, Richard?” said his mother sadly. + +“I think I do--a little--in a sort of a way--believe in God--but I hope +to believe in him ten thousand times more!” + +His mother gave a sigh. + +“What more would you have, mother dear?” said Richard. “A man cannot be +a saint all at once!” + +“No, indeed, nor a woman either!” she answered. “I've been a believer +all these years, and I'm no nearer a saint than ever.” + +“But you're trying to be one, ain't you, mammy?” + +She made him no reply, and presently reverted to their former +topic--perhaps took refuge in it. + +“I think it might be managed--some day!” she said. “You could go on +with your trade after, if you liked. Why shouldn't a college-man be a +tradesman? Why shouldn't a tradesman know as much as a gentleman?” + +“Why, indeed, mother! If I thought it wouldn't be too much for father +and you, there are not many things I should like better than going to +Oxford. You are good to me like God himself!” + +“Richard!” said his mother, shocked. She thought she served God by going +to church, not by being like him in every word and look of love she gave +her boy. + +The mere idea of going to college, and thus taking a step nearer to +Barbara, began immediately to better his health. It gave him many a +happy thought, many a cottage and castle in the air, with more of a +foundation than he knew. But his mother did not revert to it; and one +day suddenly the thought came to Richard that perhaps she meant to apply +to sir Wilton for the means of sending him. Castle and cottage fell in +silent ruin. His soul recoiled from the idea with loathing--as much for +his mother's sake as his own. Having married his reputed father, she +must have no more relation, for good any more than for bad, with sir +Wilton--least of all for his sake! To her he was dead; and ought to be +as dead as disregard could make him! So, at least, thought Richard. He +was sorry he had confessed he should like to go to Oxford. If his mother +again alluded to the thing, he would tell her he had changed his mind, +and would not interrupt the exercise of his profession as surgeon to old +books. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. _DEATH THE DELIVERER_. + +The spring advanced; the days grew a little warmer; and at length, +partly from economic considerations, it was determined they should go +home. When they reached London, they found a great difference in the +weather: it cannot be said she owes her salubrity to her climate. +Fog and drizzle, frost and fog, were the embodiment of its unvarying +mutability. At once Richard was worse, and dared not think, for his +mother's sake, and the labour she had spent upon him, of going to the +next popular concert, if indeed those delights had not ceased for the +season. But he ought to try, for he could do that in the middle of the +day, at least to get news of Arthur Manson. He dreaded hearing that he +was no more in this world. The cold wintry weather, and the return to +poor and spare nourishment caused by Richard's illness, must have been +hard upon him! It was a continual sorrow to Richard that he had not been +able to get him his new clothes before he was taken ill. So the first +morning he felt it possible, he took his way to the city. There he +learned that the company had dispensed with Arthur's services, because +his attendance had become so irregular. + +“You see, sir,” said the porter, “the gov'nors they don't think no more +of a man than they do of a horse: so long as he can hold the shafts +up an' lean agin the collar, he's money; when he can't no longer, he's +dirt!” + +Sad at heart, Richard set out for Clerkenwell. He was ill able for the +journey, but Arthur was dying! He would brave the mother for the sake of +the son! He got into an omnibus which took him a good part of the way, +and walked the rest. When at length he looked up at the dreary house, +he saw the blinds of the windows drawn down. A pang of fear went through +his heart, and an infilial murmur awoke in his brain:--why was he, on +whom those poor lives almost depended, made feeble as themselves, and +incapable of helping them? After all his hoping and trusting, _could_ +there be a God in the earth and things go like that? The look of things +seemed the truth of things; the seen denied the unseen. Cold and hunger +and desertion; ugly, mocking failure; heartless comfort, and hopeless +misery, made up the law of life! Moody and wretched he went up the stair +to the darkened floor. + +When he knocked at the front room, that in which Alice slept with her +mother, it was opened by Alice, looking more small and forlorn than he +had yet seen her, with hollower cheeks and larger eyes, and a smile to +make an angel weep. + +“Richard!” she cried, with a voice in which the very gladness sounded +like pain. A pink flush rose in her poor wasted cheeks, and she lay +still in his arms as if she had gone to live there. + +He could not, for pity, speak one word. + +“How ill you look!” she murmured. “I knew you must be ill! I thought you +might be dead! Oh, God _is_ good to leave you to us!” Then bursting into +tears, “How wicked of me,” she sobbed, “to feel anything like gladness, +with my mother lying there, and me not able to do anything for her, and +not knowing what's become of her, or how things are going with her!--We +shall never see her again!” + +“Don't say that, Alice! Never say _never_ about anything except it be +bad. You can't be _sure_, you know. You can't be sure of anything that's +not in your very mouth--and then sometimes you can't swallow it!--But +how's Arthur?” + +“He'll know all about it soon!” she answered, with a touch of +bitterness. “If he had been left me, we should have got along somehow. +He would have lain in bed, and I would have worked beside him! How I +could have worked for _him_! But he's past hope now! He'll never get up +again.” + +“Oh God,” cried Richard in his heart, where an agony of will wrestled +with doubt, “if thou art, thou wilt hear me, and take pity on her, and +on us all!--I dare not pray, Alice,” he went on aloud, “that he may +live, but I will pray God to be with him. It would be poor kindness to +want him left with us, if he is taking him where he will be well. May I +go and see him?” + +“Surely, Richard.--But mayn't I let him know first? The surprise might +be too much for him.” + +Their talk had waked him, however, and he knew his brother's voice. +“Richard! Richard!” he cried, so loud that it startled Alice: he had not +spoken above a whisper for days. Richard opened his door, and went +in. But when he saw Arthur, he could scarcely recognize him, he was so +wasted. His eyes stood out like balls from his sunken cheeks, and the +smile with which he greeted him was all teeth, like the helpless smile +of a skull. Overcome with tenderness, the stronger that he would have +passed him in the street as one unknown, Richard stooped and kissed his +forehead, then stood speechless, holding the thin leaf of a hand that +strained his. Arthur tried to speak, but his cough came on, and his +brother begged him to be silent. + +“I will go into the next room with Alice,” he said, “and come to you +again. I shall see you often now, I hope. I've been ill or I should have +been here fifty times.” + +In the next room lay the motionless form of the unmotherly mother. +A certain something of human grace had returned to her countenance. +Richard did not like looking at her; he felt that, not loving her, +he had no right to let his eyes rest on her. But she had been sinned +against like his own mother: he must not fail her with what sympathy she +might claim! + +“Don't think hard things of her,” said Alice, as if she knew what he was +thinking. “She had not the strength of some people. I believe myself she +could not help it. She had been used to everything she wanted!” + +“I pity her heartily,” answered Richard. + +She threw her arms round his neck, and clung to him as if she would +never more let him go. + +“But what am I to do?” she said, releasing him. “If I stay at home to +nurse Arthur, we must both die of hunger. If I go away, there is nobody +to do anything for him!” + +“I wish I could stay with him!” returned Richard. “But I've been so long +ill that I have no money, and I don't know when I shall have any. I have +just one shilling in my possession. Take it, dear.” + +“I can't take your last shilling, Richard!” + +“There's no fear of me,” he said; “I shall have everything I want. It +makes me ashamed to think of it. You must just creep on for a while as +best you can, while I think what to do. Only there's the funeral!” + +Alice gave a cry choked by a sob. + +“There is no help!” she said in a voice of despair. “The parish is all +that is left us!” + +“It don't matter much,” rejoined Richard. “For my part I don't care +a paring what becomes of my old clothes when I've done with them! You +needn't think, whether she be anywhere or nowhere, that she cares how +her body gets put under the earth! Don't trouble about it, Alice; it +really is nothing. I would come to the funeral, but I don't see how I +can. I don't know now what I shall say to my mother!--Tell Arthur I +hope to see him again soon; I must not stop now. I won't forget you, +Alice--not for an hour, I think. Beg some one in the house to go in to +him now and then while you are away. I shall soon do something to cheer +him up a bit. Good-night, dear!” + +With a heavy heart Richard went. It was all he could do to get home +before dark, having to walk all the way. His mother was much distressed +to see him so exhausted; but he managed not to tell her what he had been +about. He had some tea and went to bed, and there remained all the next +day. And while he was in bed, it came to him clear and plain what he +must do. It was certain that for a long time he could do nothing for +Arthur and Alice out of his own pocket. Even if he got to work at once, +he could not take his wages as before, seeing his parents had spent upon +him almost all they had saved! + +But there was one who _ought_ to help them! Specially in such sore need +had they a right to the saving help of their own father! He would go +to his father and their father--and as the words rose in his mind, he +wondered where he had heard something like them before. + +The next day he begged his father and mother to let him spend a week or +two with his grandfather. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. _THE CAVE IN THE FIRE_. + +The day after, well wrapt from the cold, he took his place in a slow +train, and at the station was heartily welcomed by his grandfather, who +had come with his pony-cart to take him home. Settled in the room once +occupied by Alice, he felt like a usurper, a robber of the helpless: +he had left her in misery and wretchedness, and was in the heart of +the comfort that had once been hers. He had to tell himself that it was +foolish; that he was there for her sake. + +He took his grandfather at once into his confidence, begging him not +to let his mother know: and Simon, who had in former days experienced +something of the hardness of his true-hearted daughter, entered into the +thing with a brooding kind of smile. He saw no reason why Richard should +not make the attempt, but shook his head at the prospect of success. +Doubtless the baronet thought he had done all that could be required of +him! He would have Richard rest a day before encountering him but when +he heard in what condition he had left Alice and her brother, he said +no more, but the next morning had his trap ready to drive him to +Mortgrange. + +Richard's heart beat fast as he entered the lodge-gate, and walked up to +the front door. After a moment's bewilderment the servant who answered +his ring recognized him, and expressed concern that he looked so ill. +When he asked to see sir Wilton, the man, thinking he came to resume +the work so suddenly abandoned, said he was in the library, having his +morning cigar. + +“Then I'll just step in!” said Richard; and the footman gave way as to a +member of the household. + +Sir Wilton, now an elderly and broken man, sat in the same chair, and in +the same attitude, as when Richard, a new-born and ugly child, had, +in the arms of his aunt, his first interview with him, nearly one and +twenty years before. The relation between them had not developed a +hair's-breadth since that moment, and Richard, partly from the state +of his health, could not, with all the courage he could gather, help +quailing a little before the expected encounter; but he remained +outwardly quiet and seemingly cool. The sun was not shining into the +room, and it was rather dark. Sir Wilton sat with his back to the one +large bay-window, and Richard received its light on his face as he +entered. He stood an instant, hesitating. His father did not speak, +but sat looking straight at him, staring indeed as at something +portentous--much as when first he saw the ugly apparition of his infant +heir. Richard's illness had brought out, in the pallor and emaciation +of his countenance, what likeness there was in him to his mother; and, +strange to say, at the moment when the door opened to admit him, sir +Wilton was thinking of the monstrous baby his wife had left him, and +wondering if the creature were still alive, and as hideous as twenty +years before. + +It was not _very_ strange, however. Sir Wilton had been annoyed with +his wife that morning, and it was yet a bitterer thing not to be able +to hurt her in return, which, because of her cold imperturbability, was +impossible, say what he might. As often, therefore, as he sat in silent +irritation with her, the thought of his lost child never failed to +present itself. What a power over her ladyship would he not possess, +what a plough and harrow for her frozen equanimity, if only he knew +where the heir to Mortgrange was! He was damned ugly, but the uglier the +better! If he but had him, he swore he would have a merry time, with +his lady's pride on its marrow-bones! After so many years the poor lad +might, ugly as he was, turn out presentable, and if so, then, by heaven, +that smooth-faced gentleman, Arthur, should shift for himself! + +Suddenly appeared Richard, with his mother in his face; and before his +father had time to settle what the deuce it could mean, the apparition +spoke. + +“I am very sorry to intrude upon you, sir Wilton,” he said, “but--” + +Here he paused. + +“--But you've got something to tell me--eh?” suggested sir Wilton. He +was on the point of adding, “If it be where you got those eyes, I may +have to ask you to sit down!” but he checked himself, and said only, +“You'd better make haste, then; for the devil is at the door in the +shape of my damned gout!” + +“I came to tell you, sir Wilton,” replied Richard, plunging at once into +the middle of things, which was indeed the best way with sir Wilton, +“about a son of yours--” + +“What!” cried sir Wilton, putting his hands on the arms of his chair +and leaning forward as if on the point of rising to his feet. “Where the +devil is he? What do you know about him?” + +“He is lying at the point of death--dying of hunger, I may say.” + +“Rubbish!” cried the baronet contemptuously. “You want to get money out +of me! But you shan't!--not a damned penny!” + +“I do want to get money from you, sir,” said Richard. “I kept the poor +fellow alive--kept him in dinners at least, him and his sister, till I +fell ill and couldn't work.” + +At the word _sister_ the baronet grew calmer. It was nothing about the +lost heir! The other sort did not matter: they were no use against the +enemy! + +Richard paused. The baronet stared. + +“I haven't a penny to call my own, or I should not have come to you,” + resumed Richard. + +“I thought so! That's your orthodox style! But you've come to the wrong +man!” returned sir Wilton. “I never give anything to beggars.” + +He did not in the least doubt what he heard, but he scarcely knew what +he answered--wondering where he had seen the fellow, and how he came to +be so like his wife. The remembered ugliness of her infant prevented all +suggestion that this handsome fellow might be the same. + +“You are the last man, sir Wilton, from whom I would ask anything for +myself,” said Richard. + +“Why so?” + +Richard hesitated. To let him suspect the same claim in himself, would +be fatal. + +“I swear to you, sir Wilton,” he said, “by all that men count sacred, +I come only to tell you that Arthur and Alice Manson, your son and +daughter, are in dire want. Your son may be dead; he looked like it +three days ago, and had no one to attend to him; his sister had to leave +him to earn their next day's food. Their mother lay a corpse in the +other of their two rooms.” + +“Oh! she's gone, is she! That alters the case. But what became of all +the money I gave her? It was more than her body was worth; soul she +never had any!” + +“She lost it somehow, and her son and daughter starved themselves to +keep her in plenty, so that by the time she died, they were all but dead +themselves.” + +“A pair of fools.” + +“A good son and daughter, sir!” + +“Attached to the young woman, eh?” asked the baronet, looking hard at +him. + +“Very much; but hardly more than to her brother,” answered Richard. +“God knows if I had but my strength,” he cried, almost in despair, and +suddenly shooting out his long thin arms, with his two hands, wasted +white, at the ends of them, “I would work myself to the bone for them, +and not ask you for a penny!” + +“I provided for their mother!--why didn't they look after the money? +_I'm_ not accountable for _them_!” + +“Ain't you accountable for giving the poor things a mother like that, +sir?” + +“By Jove, you have me there! She _was_ a bad lot--a damned liar!--Young +fellow, I don't know who you are, but I like your pluck! There ain't +many I'd let stand talking at me like that! I'll give you something for +the poor creatures--that is, mind you, if you've told me the truth about +their mother! You're sure she's dead? Not a penny shall they have if +she's alive!” + +“I saw her dead, sir, with my own eyes.” + +“You're sure she wasn't shamming?” + +“She couldn't have shammed anything so peaceful.” + +The baronet laughed. + +“Believe me, sir,” said Richard, “she's dead--and by this time buried by +the parish.” + +“God bless my soul! Well, it's none of my fault!” + +“She ate and drank her own children!” said Richard with a groan, for his +strength was failing him. He sank into a chair. + +“I will give you a cheque,” said sir Wilton, rising, and going to a +writing-table in the window. “I will give you twenty pounds for them +in the meantime--and then we'll see--we'll see!--that is,” he added, +turning to Richard, “if you swear by God that you have told me nothing +but the truth!” + +“I swear,” said Richard solemnly, “by all my hopes in God the saviour +of men, that I have not wittingly uttered a word that is untrue or +incorrect.” + +“That's enough. I'll give you the cheque.” + +He turned again to the table, sat down, searched for his keys, unlocked +and drew out a drawer, took from it a cheque-book, and settled +himself to write with deliberation, thinking all the time. When he had +done--“Have the goodness to come and fetch your money,” he said tartly. + +“With pleasure!” answered Richard, and went up to the table. + +Sir Wilton turned on his seat, and looked him in the face, full in the +eyes. Richard steadily encountered his gaze. + +“What is your name?” said sir Wilton at length. “I must make the cheque +payable to you!” + +“Richard Tuke, sir,” answered Richard. + +“What are you?” + +“A bookbinder. I was here all the summer, sir, repairing your library.” + +“Oh! bless my soul!--Yes! that's what it was! I thought I had seen you +somewhere! Why didn't you tell me so at first?” + +“It had nothing to do with my coming now, and I did not imagine it of +any interest to you, sir.” + +“It would have saved me the trouble of trying to remember where I had +seen you!” + +Then suddenly a light flashed across his face. + +“By heaven,” he muttered, “I understand it now!--They saw it--that look +on his face!--By Jove!--But no; she never saw _her_!--She must have +heard something about him then!--They didn't treat you well, I believe!” + he said: “--turned you away at a moment's notice!--I hope they took that +into consideration when they paid you?” + +“I made no complaint, sir. I never asked why I was dismissed!” + +“But they made it up to you--didn't they?” + +“I don't submit to ill usage, sir.” “That's right! I'm glad you made +them pay for it!” + +“To take money for ill usage is to submit to it, it seems to me!” said +Richard. + +“By Jove, there are not many would call money ill usage!--Well, it +wasn't right, and I'll have nothing to do with it!--Here,” he went on, +wheeling round to the table, and drawing his cheque-book toward him, “I +will give you another cheque for yourself.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Richard, “but I can take nothing for +myself! Don't you see, sir?--As soon as I was gone, you would think I +had after all come for my own sake!” + +“I won't, I promise you. I think you a very honest fellow!” + +“Then, sir, please continue to think me so, and don't offer me money!” + +“Lest you should be tempted to take it?” + +“No; lest I should annoy you by the use I made of it!” + +“Tut, tut! I don't care what you do with it! You can't annoy me!” + +He wrote a second cheque, blotted it, then finished the other, and held +out both to Richard. + +“I can't give you so much as the other poor beggars; you haven't the +same claim upon me!” he said. + +Richard took the cheques, looked at them, put the larger in his pocket, +walked to the fire, and placed the other in the hottest cavern of it. + +“By Jove!” cried the baronet, and again stared at him: he had seen his +mother do precisely the same thing--with the same action, to the very +turn of her hand, and with the same choice of the central gulf of fire! + +Richard turned to sir Wilton, and would have thanked him again on behalf +of Alice and Arthur, but something got up in his throat, and, with a +grateful look and a bend of the head, he made for the door speechless. + +“I say, I say, my lad!” cried sir Wilton, and Richard stopped. + +“There's something in this,” the baronet went on, “more than I +understand! I would give a big cheque to know what is in your mind! What +does it all mean?” + +Richard looked at him, but said nothing: he was in some sort fascinated +by the old man's gaze. + +“Suppose now,” said sir Wilton, “I were to tell you I would do whatever +you asked me so far as it was in my power--what would you say?” + +“That I would ask you for nothing,” answered Richard. + +“I make the promise; I say solemnly that I will give you whatever you +ask of me--provided I can do it honestly,” said the baronet. + +“What a damned fool I am!” he thought with himself. “The devil is in me +to let the fellow walk over me like this! But I must know what it all +means! I shall find some way out of it!” + +For one moment the books around him seemed to Richard to rush upon his +brain like troops to the assault of a citadel; but the next he said-- + +“I can ask you for nothing whatever, sir; but I thank you from my heart +for my poor friends, your children. Believe me I am grateful.” + +With a lingering look at his father, he left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER L. _DUCK-FISTS_. + +The godless old man was strangely moved. He rose, but instead of ringing +the bell, hobbled after Richard to the door. As he opened it, however, +he heard the hall-door close. He went to it, but by the time he reached +it, the bookbinder had turned a corner of the house, to go by a back-way +to the spot where his grandfather was waiting for him. + +He found him in his cart, immovably expectant, his pony eating the grass +at the edge of the road. Before he got his head pulled up, Richard was +in the cart beside him. + +“Drive on, grandfather,” he panted in triumph. “I've got it!” + +“Got what, lad?” returned the old man, with a flash in his eyes, and a +forward strain of his neck. + +“What I wanted. Money. Twenty pounds.” + +“Bah! twenty pounds!” returned Simon with contempt, and a jerk of his +head the other way. + +He had himself noted Richard's likeness to his daughter, and imagined it +impossible sir Wilton should not also see it. + +“But of course,” he went on, “twenty pounds will be a large sum to them, +and give them time to look about, and see what can be done. And now +I'll tell you what, lad: if the young man is fit to be moved when you +go back, you just bring him down here--to the cottage, I mean--and it +shan't cost him a ha'penny. I've a bit of a nest-egg as ain't chalk nor +yet china; and Jessie is going to be well married; and who knows but +the place may suit him as it did his sister! You look to it when you get +home.” + +“I will indeed, grandfather!--You're a good man, grandfather: the poor +things are no blood of yours!” + +“Where's the odds o' that!” grunted Simon. “I reckon it was your God and +mine as made 'em!” + +Richard felt in his soul that, little reason as he had to be proud of +his descent, he had at least one noble grandfather. + +“You're a good man, grandfather!” he repeated meditatively. + +“Middlin',” returned the old man, laughing. “I'm not so good by a long +chalk as my maker meant me, and I'm not so bad as the devil would have +me. But if I were the powers that be, I wouldn't leave things as they +are! I'd have 'em a bit straightened out afore I died!” + +“That shows where you come from, Mr. Wingfold would say; for that is +just what God is always doing.” + +“I know the man; I know your Mr. Wingfold! Since you went, he's been +more than once or twice to the smithy to ask after you. He's one o' the +right sort, he is! He's a man, he is!--not an old woman in breeches! +My soul! why don't they walk and talk and look like men? Most on 'em as +I've seen are no more like men than if they was drawn on the wall with +a coal! If they was all like your Mr. Wingfold now! Why, the devil +wouldn't hare a chance! I've a soft heart for the clergy--always had, +though every now and then they do turn me sick!” + +They were spinning along the road, half-way home, behind the little +four-legged business in the shafts, when they became aware of a quick +sharp trot behind them. Neither looked round: the blacksmith was minding +his pony and the clergy, and the twenty pounds in Richard's heart were +making it sing a new song. What a thing is money even, with God in it. +The horseman came alongside the cart, and slackened his pace! + +“Sir Wilton wants to see Mr. Tuke again,” he said. “He made a mistake in +the cheque he gave him.” + +An arrow of fear shot through Richard's heart. What did it mean? Was the +precious thing going to be taken from him? Was his hope to be destroyed +and his heart left desolate? He took the cheque from his pocket and +examined it. Simon had pulled up his pony, and they were standing in +the middle of the highway, the old man waiting his grandson's decision. +Richard was not unaccustomed to cheques in payment of his work, and +he could see nothing amiss with the baronet's: it was made payable to +bearer, and not crossed: Alice could take it to the bank and get the +money for it! The next moment, however, he noted that it was payable at +a branch-bank in the town of Barset, near Mortgrange. The baronet, +he concluded, had, with more care than he would have expected of him, +thought of this, and that it would cause trouble, so had sent his man +to bring him back, that he might replace the cheque with one payable in +London. His heart warmed toward his father. + +“I see!” he said. “I'm sorry to give you the trouble, grandfather, but +I'm afraid we must go!” + +Simon turned the pony's head without a word, and they went trotting +briskly back to Mortgrange. Richard explained the matter as it seemed to +him. + +“I'm glad to find him so considerate!” said the old man. “It's a bad +cheese that don't improve with age! Only men ain't cheeses!--If I'd +brought up my girls better,--” he went on reflectively, but Richard +interrupted him. + +“You ain't going to hit my mother, grandfather!” said Richard. + +“No, no, lad; I learned my manners better than that! Whatever I was +going to say, I was thinking of my own faults and no one else's. But +it's not possible we should be wise at the outset, and I trust the Maker +will remember it. He'll be considerate, lad!--The Bible would call it +_merciful_, but I don' care for parson-words! I like things that are +true to sound true, just as any common honest man would say them!” + +The moment he saw that Richard was indeed gone, the baronet swore +to himself that the fellow was his own son. He was his mother all +over!--anything but ugly, and far fitter to represent the family than +the smooth-faced ape lady Ann had presented him with! But a doubt came: +his late wife had a sister somewhere, and a son of hers might have +stolen a likeness to his lady-aunt! The tradesman fellow knew of the +connection, and pretended to himself not to think much of it! + +“What _are_ we coming to, by Jove!” muttered the baronet. “The pride +of the lower classes is growing portentous!--No, the fellow is none of +mine!” he concluded with a sigh. + +Alas for his grip on lady Ann! The pincers had melted in his grasp, and +she was gone! It _was_ a pity! If he had been a better husband to poor +Ruby, he would have taken better care of her child, ugly as he was, and +would have had him now to plague lady Ann! But stop! there was something +odd about the child--something more than mere ugliness--something his +nurse had shown him in that very room! By Jove! what was it? It had +something to do with ducks, or geese, or swans, or pelicans! He had +mentioned the thing to his wife, he knew, and she was sure to have +remembered it! But he was not going to ask her! Very likely she had +known the fellow by it, and therefore sent him out of the house!--Yes! +yes! by Jove! that was it! He had webs between his fingers and toes!--He +might have got rid of them, no doubt, but he must see his hands! + +All this passed swiftly through sir Wilton's mind. He rang the library +bell furiously, and sent a groom after the bookbinder. They drove in at +the gate, but stopped a little way from the house. Richard ran to the +great door, found it open, and went straight to the library. There sat +the baronet as at first. + +“I bethought me,” said sir Wilton the moment he entered, “that I had +given you a cheque on the branch at Barset, when it would probably suit +you better to have one on headquarters in London!” + +“It was very kind of you to think of it, sir,” answered Richard. + +“Kind! I don't know about that! I'm not often accused of that weakness!” + returned sir Wilton, rising with a grin--in which, however, there was +more of humour than ill nature. + +He went to the table in the window, sat down, unlocked a drawer, took +out a cheque-book, and began to write a cheque. + +“What did you say was your name?” he asked: “these cheques are all made +to order, and I should prefer your drawing the money.” + +Richard gave him again the name he had always been known by. + +“Tuke! What a beast of a name!” said the baronet. “How do you spell it?” + +Richard's face flushed, but he would not willingly show anger with one +who had granted the prayer of his sorest need. He spelled the name to +him as unconcernedly as he could. But the baronet had a keen ear. + +“Oh, you needn't be crusty!” he said. “I meant no harm. One has fancies +about names, you know! What did they call your mother before she was +married?” + +Richard hesitated. He did not want sir Wilton to know who he was. He +felt that, the relation between them known by both, he must behave to +his father in a way he would not like. But he must, nevertheless, speak +the truth! Wherever he had not spoken the truth, he had repented, and +been ashamed, and had now come to see that to tell a lie was to step +out of the march of the ages led by the great will. “Her name, sir, was +Armour,” he said. + +“Hey!” cried the baronet with a start. Yet he had all but expected it. + +“Yes, sir,--Jane Armour.” + +“Jane!” said his father with an accent of scorn. “--Not a bit of +it!--_Jane_!” he repeated, and muttered to himself--“What motive could +there be for misinforming the boy as to the _Christian_ name of his +mother?” + +For, the moment he saw the youth again, the spell was upon him afresh, +and he felt all but certain he was his own. + +Richard stood perplexed. Sir Wilton had taken his mother's name oddly +for any supposition. He had said Mrs. Manson was a liar: might not +her assertion of a relation between them be as groundless as it was +spiteful? He had at once acknowledged the Mansons, but showed no +recognition of himself on hearing his mother's name? There might be +nothing in Mrs. Manson's story; he might after all be the son of John +as well as of Jane Tuke! Only, alas, then, Alice and Arthur would not +be his sister and brother! They would be God's children all the same, +though, and he God's child! they would still be his brother and sister, +to love and to keep. + +“Here, put your name on the back there,” said the baronet, having +blotted the cheque. “I have made it payable to your order, and without +your name it is worth nothing.” + +“It will be safer to endorse it at the bank, sir,” returned Richard. + +“I see you know what you're about!” grinned sir Wilton--saying to +himself, however, “The rascal will be too many for me!--But,” he +continued, “I see too you don't know how to sign your own name! I had +better alter it to _bearer_, with my initials! Damn it! your paltry +cheque has given me more trouble than if it had been for ten thousand! +Sit down there, will you, and write your name on that sheet of paper.” + +Richard knew the story of Talleyrand--how, giving his autograph to a +lady, he wrote it at the top left-hand corner of the sheet, so that she +could write above or before it, neither an order for money nor a promise +of marriage: yielding to an absurd impulse, he did the same. The baronet +burst into loud laughter, which, however, ceased abruptly: he had not +gained his end! + +“What comical duck-fists you've got!” he cried, risking the throw. “I +once knew a man whose fingers and toes too were tied together that way! +He swam like a duck!” + +“My feet are more that way than my hands,” replied Richard. “Only _some_ +of my fingers have got the web between them. My mother made me promise +to put up with the monstrosity till I came of age. She seemed to think +some luck lay in it.” + +“Your mother!” murmured the baronet, and kept eyeing him. “By Jove,” he +said aloud, “your mother--! Who is your mother?” + +“As I told you, sir, my mother's name is Jane Tuke!” + +“Born Armour?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“By heaven!” said the baronet to himself, “I see it all now! That +terrible nurse was one of the family--and carried him away because +she didn't like the look of my lady! Don't I wish I had had half her +insight! Perhaps she was cousin to Robina--perhaps her own sister! +Simon, the villain, will know all about it!” He sat silent for a moment. + +“Hm!--Now tell me, you young rascal,” he said, “why didn't you put in a +claim for yourself instead of those confounded Mansons?” + +“Why should I, sir? I didn't want anything. I have all I desire--except +a little more strength to work, and that is coming.” + +The baronet kept gazing at him with the strangest look on his wicked, +handsome old face. + +“There is something you _should_ have asked me for!” he said at length, +in a gentler tone. + +“What is that, sir?” + +“Your rights. You have a claim upon me before anyone else in the whole +world!--I like you, too,” he went on in yet gentler tone, with a touch +of mockery in it. Apparently he still hesitated to commit himself. “I +must do something for you!” + +His son could contain himself no longer. + +“I would ask nothing, I would take nothing,” he said, as calmly as +he could, though his voice trembled, and his heart throbbed with the +beginnings of love, “from a man who had wronged my mother!” + +“Damn the rascal! I never wronged his mother!--Who said I wronged your +mother, you scoundrel? I'll take my oath _she_ never did! Answer me +directly who told you so!” + +His voice had risen to a roar of anger. + +His son could do the dead no wrong by speaking the truth. + +“Mrs. Manson told me,” he began, but was not allowed to finish the +sentence. + +“Damned liar she always was!” cried the baronet--with such a fierceness +in his growl as made Richard call to mind a certain bear in the +Zoological gardens. “Then it was she that had you stolen! The beast +ought to have died on the gallows, not in her bed! Ah, she was the +one to plot, the snake! In this whole curse of a world, _she_ was the +meanest devil I ever came across, and I've known more than a few!” + +“I know nothing about her, sir, except as the mother of Arthur, my +schoolfellow. She seemed to hate me! She said I belonged to you, and had +no right to be better off than her children!” + +“How did she know you?” + +“I can't tell, sir.” + +“You are like your mother, but the snake never can have set eyes on +her!--Give me that cheque. Her fry shan't have a farthing! Let them rot +alive with their dead dam!” + +He held out his hand: the second cheque lay on the table, and Richard +had the former still in his possession. He did not move, nor did sir +Wilton urge his demand. + +“Did I not tell you?” he resumed. “Did I not say she was a liar? I never +did your mother a wrong--nor you neither, though I did swear at you a +bit, you were so damned ugly. I don't blame you. You couldn't help it! +Lord, what a display the woman made of your fingers and toes, as if the +webs were something to be proud of, and atoned for the face!--Can you +swim?” + +“Fairly well, sir,” answered Richard carelessly. + +“Your mother swam like a--Naiad, was it--or Nereid?--I forget--damn it!” + +“I don't know the difference in their swimming.” + +“Nor any other difference, I dare say!” + +“I know the one was a nymph of the sea, the other of a river.” + +“Oh! you know Greek, then?” + +“I wish I did, sir: I was not long enough at school. I had to learn a +trade and be independent.” + +“By Jove, I wish I knew a trade and was independent! But you shall learn +Greek, my boy! There will be some good in teaching _you_! _I_ never +learned anything?--But how the deuce do you know about Naiads and +Nereids and all that bosh, if you don't know Greek?” + +“I know my Keats, sir. I had to plough with his heifer though--use my +_Lempriere_, I mean!” + +“Good heavens!” said the baronet, who knew as little of Keats as any +Lap.--“I wish I had been content to take you with all your ugliness, and +bring you up myself, instead of marrying Lot's widow!” + +Richard fancied he preferred the bringing up he had had, but he said +nothing. Indeed he could make nothing of the whole business. How was +it that, if sir Wilton had done his mother no wrong, his mother was the +wife of John Tuke? He was bewildered. + +“You wouldn't like to learn Greek, then?” said his father. + +“Yes, sir; indeed I should!” + +“Why don't you say so then? I never saw such a block! I say you _shall_ +learn Greek!--Why do you stand there looking like a dead oyster?” + +“I beg your pardon, sir! May I have the other cheque?” + +“What other cheque?” + +“The cheque there for my brother and sister, sir,” answered Richard, +pointing to it where the baronet had laid it, on the other side of him. + +“Brother and sister!” + +“The Mansons, sir,” persisted Richard. + +“Oh, give them the cheque and be damned to them! But remember they're no +brother and sister of yours, and must never be alluded to as such, or +as persons you have any knowledge of. When you've given them that,”--he +pointed to the cheque which still lay beside him--“you drop their +acquaintance.” + +“That I cannot do, sir.” + +“There's a good beginning now! But I might have expected it!--You tell +me to my face you won't do what I order you?” + +“I can't, sir; it wouldn't be right.” + +“Fiddlesticks!--Wouldn't be right! What's that to you? It's my business. +You've got to do what I tell you.” + +“I must go by my conscience, sir.” + +“Oh, damn your conscience! Will you promise, or will you not? You're to +have nothing to say to those young persons.” + +“I will not promise.” + +“Not if I promise to look after them?” + +“No, sir.” His father was silent for a moment, regarding him--not all in +anger. + +“Well, you're a good-plucked one, I allow? But you're the greatest fool, +the dullest young ass out, notwithstanding. You won't suit me--though +you are web-footed!--Why, damn it, boy! don't you understand yet that +I'm your father?” + +“Mrs. Manson told me so, sir.” + +“Oh, rot Mrs. Manson! she told you a damned lie! She told you I wronged +your mother! I tell you I married her! What a blockhead you are! Look +there, with your miserable tradesman's-eyes: all those books will be +yours one day!--to put in the fire if you like, or mend at from morning +to night, just as you choose! You fool! Ain't you my son, heir to +Mortgrange, and whatever I may choose to give you besides!” + +Richard's heart gave a bound as if it would leap to heaven. It was not +the land; it was not the money; it was not the books; it was not even +Barbara; it was Arthur and Alice that made it bound. But the voice of +his father went on. + +“You know now, you idiot,” it said, “why you can have nothing more to do +with that cursed litter of Mansons!” + +Richard's heart rose to meet the heartlessness of his father. + +“They are my brother and sister, sir!” he said. + +“And what the devil does it matter to you if they are! It's my business +that, not yours! You had nothing to do with it! You didn't make the +Mansons!” + +“No, sir; but God made us all, and says we're to love our brethren.” + +“Now don't you come the pious over me! It won't pay here! Mind you, +nobody heard me acknowledge you! By the mighty heavens, I will deny +knowing anything about you! You'll have to prove to the court of +chancery that you're my son, born in wedlock, and kidnapped in infancy: +by Jove, you'll find it stiff! Who'll advance you the money to carry +it there?--you can't do it without money. Nobody; the property's not +entailed, and who cares whether it be sir Richard or sir Arthur? What's +the title without the property! But don't imagine I should mind telling +a lie to keep the two together. I'm not a nice man; I don't mind lying! +I'm a bad man!--that I know better than you or any one else, and you'll +find it uncomfortable to differ and deal with me both at once!” + +“I will not deny my own flesh and blood,” said Richard. + +“Then I will deny mine, and you may go rot with them.” + +“I will work for them and myself,” said Richard. + +Sir Wilton glared at him. Richard made a stride to the table. The +baronet caught up the cheque. Richard darted forward to seize it. Was +his truth to his friends to be the death of them? He _would_ have the +money! It was his! He had told him to take it! + +What might have followed I dare not think. Richard's hands were out to +lay hold on his father, when happily he remembered that he had not given +him back the former cheque, and Barset was quite within reach of his +grandfather's pony! He turned and made for the door. Sir Wilton read his +thought. + +“Give me that cheque,” he cried, and hobbled to the bell. + +Richard glanced at the lock of the door: there was no key in it! Besides +there were two more doors to the room! He darted out: there was the man, +far off down the passage, coming to answer the bell! He hastened to meet +him. + +“Jacob,” he said, “sir Wilton rang for you: just run down with me to the +gate, and give the woman there a message for me.” + +He hurried to the door, and the man, nothing doubting, followed him. + +“Tell her,” said Richard as they went, “if she should see Mr. Wingfold +pass, to ask him to call at old Armour's smithy. She does not seem to +remember me! Good day! I'm in a hurry!” He leaped into the pony-cart. + +“Barset!” he cried, and the same moment they were off at speed, for +Simon saw something fresh was up. + +“Drive like Jehu,” panted Richard. “Let's see what the blessed pony can +do! Every instant is precious.” + +Never asking the cause of his haste, old Simon did drive like Jehu, and +never had the pony gone with a better will: evidently he believed speed +was wanted, and knew he had it to give. + +No hoofs came clamping on the road behind them. They reached the town +in safety, and Richard cashed his cheque--the more easily that Simon, a +well-known man in Barset, was seen waiting for him in his trap outside. +The eager, anxious look of Richard, and the way he clutched at the +notes, might otherwise have waked suspicion. As it was, it only waked +curiosity. + +When the man whom Richard had decoyed, appeared at length before his +master, whose repeated ringing had brought the butler first; and when +sir Wilton, after much swearing on his, and bewilderment on the man's +part, made out the trick played on him, his wrath began to evaporate in +amusement: he was outwitted and outmanoeuvred--but by his own son! and +even in the face of such an early outbreak of hostilities, he could +not help being proud of him. He burst into a half cynical laugh, and +dismissed the men--to vain speculation on the meaning of the affair. + +Simon would have had Richard send the bank-notes by post, and stay with +him a week or two; but Richard must take them himself; no other way +seemed safe. Nor could he possibly rest until he had seen his mother, +and told her all. He said nothing to his grandfather of his recognition +by sir Wilton, and what followed: he feared he might take the thing in +his own hands, and go to sir Wilton. + +Questioning his grandfather, he learned that Barbara was at home, but +that he had seen her only once. She had one day appeared suddenly at +the smithy door, with Miss Brown all in a foam. She asked about Richard, +wheeled her mare, and was off homeward, straight as an arrow--for he +went to the corner, and looked after her. + +They were near a station at Barset, and a train was almost due. Simon +drove him there straight from the bank, and before he was home, Richard +was half-way to London. + +Short as was his visit, he had got from it not merely all he had hoped, +but almost all he needed. His weakness had left him; he had twenty +pounds for his brother and sister; and his mother was cleared, though he +could not yet tell how: was he not also a little step nearer to Barbara? +True, he was disowned, but he had lived without his father hitherto, and +could very well go on to live without such a father! As long as he did +what was right, the right was on his side! As long as he gave others +their rights, he could waive his own! A fellow was not bound, he said, +to insist on his rights--at least he had not met with any he was bound +to insist upon. Borne swiftly back to London, his heart seemed rushing +in the might of its gladness to console the heaven-laden hearts of Alice +and Arthur. Twenty pounds was a great sum to carry them! He could indeed +himself earn such a sum in a little while, but how long would it not +take him to save as much! Here it was, whole and free, present and +potent, ready to be turned at once into food and warmth and hope! + + + + +CHAPTER LI + + +_BARONET AND BLACKSMITH_. + +The more sir Wilton's anger subsided, the more his heart turned to +Richard, and the more he regretted that he had begun by quarrelling with +him. Sir Wilton loved his ease, and was not a quarrelsome man. He could +dislike intensely, he could hate heartily, but he seldom quarrelled; and +if he could have foreseen how his son would take the demand he made upon +him, he would not at the outset have risked it. He liked Richard's looks +and carriage. He liked also his spirit and determination, though his +first experience of them he could have wished different. He felt also +that very little would make of him a man fit to show to the world and +be proud of as his son. To his satisfaction on these grounds was added +besides a peculiar pleasure in the discovery of him which he could ask +no one to share--that it was to him as a lump of dynamite under his +wife's lounge, of which no one knew but himself, and which he could +at any instant explode. It was sweet to know what he _could_ do! to be +aware, and alone aware, of the fool's paradise in which my lady and her +brood lived! And already, through his own precipitation, his precious +secret was in peril! + +The fact gave him not a little uneasiness. His thought was, at the +ripest moment of her frosty indifference, to make her palace of ice fly +in flinders about her. Then the delight of her perturbation! And he had +opened his hand and let his bird fly! + +His father did not know Richard's prudence. Like the fool every man +of the world is, he judged from Richard's greatness of heart, and his +refusal to forsake his friends, that he was a careless, happy-go-lucky +sort of fellow, who would bluster and protest. As to the march he had +stolen upon him on behalf of the Mansons, he nowise resented that. When +pressed by no selfish _necessity,_ he did not care much about money; and +his son's promptitude greatly pleased him. + +“The fellow shall go to college,” he said to himself; “and I won't give +my lady even a hint before I have him the finest gentleman and the best +scholar in the county! He shall be both! I will teach him billiards +myself! By Jove! it is more of a pleasure than at my years I had a right +to expect! To think of an old sinner like me being blessed with such a +victory over his worst enemy! It is more than I could deserve if I lived +to the age of Mephistopheles! I shouldn't like to live so long--there's +so little worth remembering! I wish forgetting things wiped them out! +There are things I hardly know whether I did or only wanted to do!--Damn +it, it may be all over Barset by this time, that the heir to sir +Wilton's property has turned up!” + +He rang the bell, and ordered his carriage. + +“I must see the old fellow, the rascal's grandfather!” he kept on to +himself. “I haven't exchanged a word with him for years! And now I think +of it, I take poor Robina's father for a very decent sort of fellow! If +he had but once hinted what he was, every soul in the parish would have +known it! I _must_ find out whether he's in my secret! I can't _prove_ +it yet, but perhaps he can!” + +Simon Armour was not astonished to see the Lestrange carriage stop at +the smithy: he thought sir Wilton had come about the cheque. He went +out, and stood in hairy arms and leather apron at the carriage door. + +“Well, Armour, how are you?” said the baronet. + +“Well and hearty, sir, I thank you,” answered Simon. + +“I want a word with you,” said sir Wilton. + +“Shall I tell the coachman to drive round to the cottage, sir?” + +“No; I'll get out and walk there with you.” + +Simon opened the carriage-door, and the baronet got out. + +“That grandson of yours--” he began, the moment they were in Simon's +little parlour. + +Simon started. “The old wretch knows!” he said to himself. + +“--has been too much for me!” continued sir Wilton. “He got a cheque out +of me whether I would or not!” + +“And got the money for it, sir!” answered the smith. “He seemed to think +the money better than the cheque!” + +“I don't blame him, by Jove! There's decision in the fellow!--They say +his father's a bookbinder in London!” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You know better! I don't want humbug, Armour! I'm not fond of it!” + +“You told me people said his father was a bookbinder, and I said 'Yes, +sir'!” + +“You know as well as I do it's a damned lie! The boy is mine. He belongs +neither to bookbinder nor blacksmith!” + +“You'll allow me a small share in him, I hope! I've done more for him +than you, sir.” + +“That's not my fault!” + +“Perhaps not; but I've done more for him than you ever will, sir!” + +“How do you make that out?” + +“I've made him as good a shoesmith as ever drove nail! I don't say he's +up to his grandfather at the anvil yet, but--” + +“An accomplishment no doubt, but not exactly necessary to a gentleman!” + +“It's better than dicing or card-playing!” said the blacksmith. + +“You're right there! I hope he has learned neither. I want to teach him +those things myself.--He's not an ill-looking fellow!” + +“There's not a better lad in England, sir! If you had brought him up as +he is, you might ha' been proud o' your work!” + +“_He_ seems proud of somebody's work!--prouder of himself than his +prospects, by Jove!” said sir Wilton, feeling his way. “You should have +taught him not to quarrel with his bread and butter!” + +“I never saw any call to teach him that. He never quarrelled with +anything at my table, sir. A man who has earned his own bread and butter +ever since he left school, is not likely to quarrel with it.” + +“You don't say _he_ has done so?” + +“I do--and can prove it!--Did you tell him, sir, you were his father?” + +“Of course I did!--and before I said another word, there we were +quarrelling--just as it was with me and my father!” + +“He never told me!” said Simon, half to himself, and ready to feel hurt. + +“He didn't tell you?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Where is he?” + +“Gone to London with your bounty.” + +“Now, Simon Armour,” began the baronet with some truculence. + +“Now, sir Wilton Lestrange!” interrupted Simon. + +“What's the matter?” + +“Please to remember you are in my house!” + +“Tut, tut! All I want to say is that you will spoil everything if you +encourage the rascal to keep low company!” + +“You mean?” + +“Those Mansons.” + +“Are your children low company, sir?” + +“Yes; I am sorry, but I must admit it. Their mother was low company.” + +“She was in it at least, when she was in yours!” had all but escaped +Simon's lips, but he caught the bird by the tail.-- + +“The children are not the mother!” he said. “I know the girl, and she is +anything but low company. She lay ill in my house here for six weeks or +more. Ask Miss Wylder.--If you want to be on good terms with your son, +don't say a word, sir, against your daughter or her brother.” + +“I like that! On good terms with my son! Ha, ha!” + +“Remember, sir, he is independent of his father.” + +“Independent! A beggarly bookbinder!” + +“Excuse me, sir, but an honest trade is the only independence! You are +dependent on your money and your land. Where would you be without them? +And you made neither! They're yours only in a way! We, my grandson and +I, have means of our own,” said the blacksmith, and held out his two +brawny hands. “--The thing that is beggarly,” he resumed, “is to take +all and give nothing. If your ancestors got the land by any good they +did, you did not get it by any good you did; and having got it, what +have you done in return?” + +“By Jove! I didn't know you were such a radical!” returned the baronet, +laughing. + +“It is such as you, sir, that make what you call radicals. If the +landlords had used what was given them to good ends, there would be no +radicals--or not many--in the country! The landlords that look to their +land and those that are on it, earn their bread as hardly as the man +that ploughs it. But when you call it yours, and do nothing for it, I am +radical enough to think no wrong would be done if you were deprived of +it!” + +“What! are you taking to the highway at your age?” + +“No, sir; I have a trade I like better, and have no call to lighten you +of anything, however ill you may use it. But there are those that think +they have a right _and_ a call to take the land from landlords like you, +and I would no more leave my work to prevent them than I would to help +them.” + +“Well, well! I didn't come to talk politics; I came to ask a favour of +you.” + +“What I can do for you, sir, I shall be glad to do.” + +“It is merely this--that you will, for the present, say nothing about +the heir having turned up.” + +“I could have laid my hand on him any moment this twenty years; and I +can tell you where to find the parish book with his baptism in it! That +I've not spoken proves I can hold my tongue; but I will give no pledge; +when the time comes I will speak.” + +“Are you aware I could have you severely punished for concealing the +thing?” + +“Fire away. I'll take my chance. But I would advise you not to allow +the thing come into court. Words might be spoken that would hurt! I know +nothing myself, but there is one that could and would speak. Better let +sleeping dogs lie.” + +“Oh, damn it! I don't want to wake 'em! Most old stories are best +forgotten. But what do you think: will the boy--What's his name?” + +“My father's, sir,--Richard.” + +“Will Richard, then, as you have taken upon you to call him”-- + +“His mother gave him the name.” + +“What I want to know is, whether you think he will go and spread the +thing, or leave it to we to publish when I please.” + +“Did you tell him to hold his tongue?” + +“No; he didn't give me time.” + +“That's a pity! He would have done whatever you asked him.” + +“Oh! would he!” + +“He would--so long as it was a right thing.” + +“And who was to judge of that?” + +“Why the man who had to do it or leave it, of course!--But if he didn't +tell me, he's not likely to go blazing it abroad!” + +“You said he would go to his mother first: his mother is nowhere.” + +“So say some, so say not I!” + +“Never mind that. Who is it he calls his mother?” + +“The woman that brought him up--and a good mother she's been to him!” + +“But who is she? You haven't told me who she is!” cried the baronet, +beginning to grow impatient; and impatience and anger were never far +apart with him. + +“No, sir, I haven't told you; and I don't mean to tell you till I see +fit.” + +“And when, pray, will that be?” + +“When I have your promise in writing that you will give her no trouble +about what is past and gone.” + +“I will give you that promise--always provided she can prove that what +was past and gone is come again. I shall insist upon that!” + +“Most properly, sir I You shall not have to wait for it.--And now, if +you will take me to the post-office, I will send a telegram to Richard, +warning him to hold his tongue.” + +“Good! Come.” + +They walked to the carriage, and Simon, displacing the footman, got up +beside the coachman. He was careful, however, to be set down before they +got within sight of the post-office. + +The message he sent was-- + +“I know all, and will write. Say nothing but to your mother.” + + + + +CHAPTER LII. _UNCLE-FATHER AND AUNT-MOTHER_. + +When Richard reached London, he went straight to Clerkenwell. There he +found Arthur, in bed and unattended, but covered up warm. Except one +number of _The Family Herald_, he had nothing to read. The room was +tidy, but very dreary. Richard asked him why he did not move into the +front room. Arthur did not explain, but Richard understood that the +mother had left so many phantasms behind her that he preferred his own +dark chamber. When Richard told him what he had done and the success he +had had, he thanked him with such a shining face that Richard saw in it +the birth of saving hope. + +“And now, Arthur,” he said, “you must get better as fast as you can; +and the first minute you are able to be moved, we'll ship you off to my +grandfather's, where Alice was.” + +“Away from Alice?” + +“Yes; but you must remember there will be so much more for her to eat, +and so much more money to get things comfortable with by the time you +come back. Besides, you will grow well faster, and then perhaps we shall +find some fitter work for you than that hideous clerking!” + +The flush of joy on Arthur's cheek was a divine reward to Richard +for what he had done and suffered and sacrificed for the sake of his +brother. He made a fire, and having set on the kettle, went to buy some +things, that he might have a nice supper ready for Alice when she came +home. Next he found two clean towels, and covered the little table, +forgetting all his troubles in the gladness of ministration, and the new +life that hope gives. If only we believed in God, how we should hope! +And what would not hope do to reveal the new heavens and the new +earth--that is, to show us the real, true, and gracious aspect of those +heavens and that earth in which we now live so sadly, and are not at +home, because we do not see them as they are, do not recognize in them +the beginning of the inheritance we long for! + +When Alice came in, she heard Arthur cough, and hurried up; but before +she reached the top of the second stair, she heard a laugh which, though +feeble, was of such merry enjoyment, that it filled her with wonder and +gladness. Had the fairy god-mother appeared at last? What could have +come to make Arthur laugh like that? She opened the door, and all was +explained: there sat the one joy of their life, their brother Richard, +looking much like himself again! What a healer, what a strength-giver +is joy! Will not holy joy at last drive out every disease in the world? +Will it not be the elixir of life, and drive out death? She sprang upon +him, and burst out weeping. + +“Come and have supper,” he said. “I've been out to buy it, and haven't +much time to help you eat it. My father and mother don't know where I +am.” + +Then he told her what he had been about. It was with a happy heart he +made his way home, for he left happy hearts behind him. He wondered that +his mother was not surprised to see him--wondered too why she looked so +troubled. + +“What does this telegram mean?” she asked. + +“I don't know, mother,” he replied. “Won't you give me a kiss first?” + +She threw her arms about him. “You won't give up saying _mother_ to me, +will you?” she pleaded, fighting with her emotion. + +“It will be a bad day for me when I do!” he answered. “My mother you are +and shall be. But I don't understand it!” + +The telegram let him know that sir Wilton and his grandfather had been +in communication, and gave him hope that things might be accommodated +between him and his father. + +“You've got your real father now, Richard!” said his mother. + +But she saw an expression on his face that made her add,-- + +“You must respect your father, Richard--now you know him for your +father.” + +“I can't respect him, mother. He is not a good man. I can only love +him.” + +“You have no right to find fault with him. He was not to blame that +I carried you away when your mother died! I was terrified at your +stepmother!” + +“I don't wonder at that, mother!--Ah, now I begin to understand it +all!--But, mother, if my father had been a good man, I don't believe you +would hare carried me away from him!” + +“Very likely not, my boy--though he did make me that angry by calling +you ugly! And I don't believe I should have taken you at all, if that +woman hadn't sent me away for no reason but to have a nurse of her +choosing. How could I leave my sister's child in the power of such a +woman! Day and night, Richard, was I haunted with the sight of her cold +face hanging over you. I was certain the devil might have his way with +her when he chose: there was no love in her to prevent him. In my dreams +I saw her giving you poison, or with a pen-knife in her hand, and her +eyes shining like ice. I could _not_ bear it. I should have gone mad to +leave you there. I knew I was committing a crime in the eyes of the law; +but I felt a stronger law compelling me; and I said to myself, 'I will +be hanged for my child, rather than my child should be murdered! I will +_not_ leave him with that woman!' So I took you, Richard!” + +“Thank you, mother, a thousand times! I am sure it was right, and every +way best for me! Oh, how much I owe you and my--uncle! I must call you +_mother_ still, but I'm afraid I shall have to call my father _uncle_!” + +“It won't hurt him, Richard; he has been a good uncle to you, but I +don't think he would have taught you the things he did, if you had been +his very own child!” + +“He has done me no harm, mother,--nothing but good,” said Richard. +“--And so you are my own mother's sister?” + +“Yes, and a good mother she would have been to you! You must not think +of her as a grim old woman like me! She was but six and twenty when you +were born and she died! She was the most beautiful woman _I_ ever saw, +Richard!--Never another woman's hand has touched your body but hers and +mine, Richard!” + +He took her hand and kissed it. Jane Tuke had never had her hand kissed +before, and would have drawn it away. The lady within was ashamed of +her rough gloves, not knowing they had won her her ladyhood. In the real +world, there are no ladies but true women. Also they only are beautiful. +All there show what they are, and the others are all more or less +deformed. Oh, what lovely ladies will walk into the next world out of +the rough cocoon of their hard-wrought bodies--not because they have +been working women, but because they have been true women. Among working +women as among countesses, there are last that shall be first, and first +that shall be last. _What kind of woman_ will be the question. Alas for +those, whether high or low or in the middle, whose business in life has +been to be ladies! What poor, mean, draggled, unangelic things will +come crawling out of the husk they are leaving behind them, which yet, +perhaps, will show a glimmer, in the whiteness of death, of what they +were meant to be, if only they had lived, had _been_, had put forth the +power that was in them as their birthright! Not a few I know will crawl +out such, except they awake from the dead, and cry for life. Perhaps one +and another in the next world will say to me, “You meant me! I know now +why you were always saying such things!” For I suspect the next world +will more plainly be a going on with this than most people think--only +it will be much better for some, and much worse for others, as the Lord +has taught us in the parable of the rich man and the beggar. + +“No, Richard,” resumed his aunt, “your father was not a good man, but he +may be better now, and perhaps you will help him to be better still.” + +“It's doubtful if ever I have the chance,” returned Richard. “We've had +a pretty fair quarrel already!” + +“He can't take your birthright from you!” she cried. + +“That may be--but what _is_ my birthright? He told me the land was not +entailed; he can leave it to anybody he likes. But I'm not going to do +what he would have me do--that is if it be wrong,” added Richard, not +willing to start the question about the Mansons. “To be a sneak would be +a fine beginning! If that's to be a gentleman, I will be no gentleman!” + +“Right you are, my son!” said Tuke, who that moment came in. + +“Oh uncle!” cried Richard, starting to his feet. + +“_Uncle_!--Ho! ho! What's up now?” + +“Nothing's up, but all's out, father!” answered Richard, putting his +hand in that of the bookbinder. “You knew, and now I know! How shall I +ever thank you for what you have done for me, and been to me, and given +me!” + +“Precious little anyway, my boy! I wish it had been a great deal more.” + +“Shall I tell you what you have done for me I--You made a man of me +first of all, by giving me a trade, and making me independent. Then +again, by that trade you taught me to love the very shape of a book. +Baronet or no baronet,--” + +“What do you mean?” + +“My father threatens to disown me.” + +“He can't take your rank from you. We'll have you sir Richard +anyhow!--An' I'd let 'em see that a true baronet--” + +“--is just a true man, uncle.” interposed Richard; “and that you've +helped to make me. It's being independent and helping others, not being +a baronet, that will make a gentleman of me! That's how it goes in the +true world anyhow!” + +“The _true_ world! Where's that?” rejoined Tuke, with what would have +been a sneer had there been ill-nature in it. + +“And that reminds me of another precious thing you've given me,” Richard +went on: “You've taught me to think for myself!” + +“Think for yourself indeed, and talk of any world but the world we've +got!” + +“If you hadn't taught me,” returned Richard, “to think for myself, I +should have thought just as you did. But I've been thinking for myself a +great deal, and I say now, that, if there be no more of it after we +die, then the whole thing is such a sell as even the dumb, deaf, blind, +heartless, headless God you seem to believe in, could not have been +guilty of!” + +“Ho! ho!--that's the good my teaching has done you? Well, we'll have it +out by and by! In the meantime, tell us how it all came about--how you +came to know, I mean. You're a good sort, whatever you believe or don't +believe, and I wish you were ours in reality!” + +“It's just in reality that I am yours!” protested Richard; but his +mother broke in. + +“Would you dare, John,” she cried, “to wish him ours to his loss?” + +“No, no, Jane! You know me! It was but a touch of what you call the old +Adam--and I the old John! We've got to take care of each other! We're +all agreed about that!” + +“And you do it, father, and that's before any agreeing about it!” + +“Come and let's have our tea!” said the mother; “and Richard shall tell +us how it worked round that the old gentleman knew him. I remember him +young enough to be no bad match for your mother, and that's enough to +say for any man--as to looks, I mean only. There wasn't a more beautiful +woman than my sister Robina in all England--and I'm bold to say it--not +that it wants much boldness to say the truth!” + +“It wants nearly as much at this moment as I have got,” returned +Richard; for his narrative required, as an essential part of it, that he +should tell what had made him go to his father. + +He had but begun when a black cloud rose on his mother's face, and she +almost started from her seat. + +“I told you, Richard, you were to have nothing to do with those +creatures!” she cried. + +“Mother,” answered Richard, “was it God or the devil told me I must be +neighbour to my own brother and sister? Hasn't my father done them wrong +enough that you should side with him and want me to carry on the wrong? +I heard the same voice that made you run away with me. You were ready to +be hanged for me; I was ready to lose my father for them. He too said I +must have done with them, and I told him I wouldn't. That was why I got +you to put me on journeyman's wages, uncle. They were starving, and +I had nothing to give them. What am I in the world for, if not to set +right, so far as I may, what my father has set wrong? You see I _have_ +learned something of you, uncle!” + +“I don't see what,” returned Tuke. + +He had been listening with a grave face, for he had his pride, and did +not relish his nephew's being hand and glove with his base-born brother +and sister. + +“Don't you, father? Where's your socialism? I'm only trying to carry it +out.” + +“Out and away, my boy, as Samson did the gates in my mother's old +bible!” answered John. + +“If a man's socialism don't apply to his own flesh and blood,” resumed +Richard, “where on earth is it to begin? Must you hate your own flesh, +and go to Russia or China for somebody to be fair to? Ain't your own +got as good a right to fair play as any, and ain't they the readiest to +begin with? Is it selfish to help your own? It ain't the way you've done +by me, uncle!” + +“You mustn't forget,” said John, “that a grave wrong is done the nation +when marriage is treated with disrespect.” + +“It was my father did that! Was it Alice and Arthur that broke the +marriage-law by being born out of wedlock?” + +“If you treat them like other people, you slight that law.” + +“If sir Wilton Lestrange were to come into the room this minute, you +would offer him a chair; his children you would order out of the house!” + +“I wouldn't do that,” said Mrs. Tuke. + +“Mother, you turned them out of the house!--I beg your pardon, mother, +but you know it was the same thing! You visited the sins of the father +on the children!” + +“Bravo!” cried his uncle; “I thought you couldn't mean the rot!” + +“What rot, father?” + +“That rot about God you flung at me first thing.” + +“Father, it would take the life out of me to believe there was no +God; but the God I hope in is a very different person from the God my +mother's clergy have taught her to believe in. Father, do you know Jesus +Christ!” + +“I know the person you mean, my boy.” + +“I know what _kind_ of person he is, and he said God was just like him, +and in the God like him, if I can find him, I will believe with all my +heart and soul--and so would you, father, if you knew him. You will say, +perhaps, he ain't nowhere to know! but you haven't a right to say that +until you've been everywhere to look; for such a God is no absurdity; +it's nothing ridiculous to look for him. I beg your pardon, both of +you, but I'm bound to speak. Jesus Christ said we must leave father and +mother for him, because he is true; and I must speak for him what is +true, even if my own father and mother should think me rude.” + +He had spoken eagerly; and man or woman who does not put truth first, +may think he ought to have held his tongue. But neither father nor +mother took offence. The mother, unspeakably relieved by what had +taken place, was even ready to allow that her favourite preacher might +“perhaps dwell too much upon the terrors of the law.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. _MORNING_. + +The next post brought a letter from Simon Armour, saying, after his own +peculiar fashion, that it was time the thing were properly understood +between the parties concerned; but, that done, they must attend to the +baronet's wish, and disclose nothing yet: he believed sir Wilton had his +reasons. They must therefore, as soon as possible, make it clear to +him that there was no break in the chain of their proof of Richard's +identity. He proposed, therefore, that his daughter should pay her +father a visit, and bring Richard. + +The suggestion seemed good to all concerned. Criminal as she knew +herself, Jane Tuke did not shrink from again facing sir Wilton, with the +nephew by her side whom one and twenty years before she had carried in +her arms to meet his unfatherly gaze! To her surprise she found that she +almost enjoyed the idea. + +Richard cashed the post-office-order the old man sent them, and they set +out for his cottage. + +The same day Simon went to Mortgrange and saw the baronet, who agreed +at once to go to the cottage to meet his sister-in-law. The moment he +entered the little parlour where they waited to receive him, he made +Mrs. Tuke a polite bow, and held out his hand. + +“You are the sister of my late wife, I am told,” he said. + +Jane made him a dignified courtesy, her resentment, after the lapse of +twenty years, rising fresh at sight of the man who had behaved so badly +to her sister. + +“It was you that carried off the child?” said the baronet. + +“Yes, sir,” answered Jane. + +“I am glad I did not know where to look for him. You did me the greatest +possible favour. What these twenty years would have been like, with him +in the house, I dare not think.” + +“It was for the child's sake I did it!” said Jane. + +“I am perfectly aware it was not for mine!” returned sir Wilton. “Ha! +ha! you looked as if you had come to stab me that day you brought the +little object to the library, and gave me such a scare! You presented +his fingers and toes to me as if, by Jove, I was the devil, and had +made them so on purpose!--I tell you, Richard, if that's your name, you +rascal, you have as little idea what a preposterously ugly creature you +were, as I had that you would ever grow to be--well, half-fit to look +at! I was appalled at the sight of you! And a good thing it was! If I +had taken to you, and brought you up at home, it would scarcely have +been to your advantage. You would have been worth less than you are, +however little that may be! But it doesn't follow you're the least fit +to be owned to! You're a tradesman, every inch of you--no more like a +gentleman than--well, not half so like a gentleman as your grandfather +there! By heaven, the anvil must be some sort of education! Why wasn't +_I_ bound apprentice to my old friend Simon there! But, Richard, you +don't look a gentleman, though your aunt looks as if she would eat me +for saying it.--Now listen to me--all of you. It's no use your saying +I've acknowledged him. If I choose to say I know nothing about him, +then, as I told the rascal himself the other day, you'll have to prove +your case, and that will take money! and when you've proved it, you get +nothing but the title, and much good that will do you! So you had better +make up all your minds to do as I tell you--that is, not to say one word +about the affair, but just hold your tongues.--Now none of that looking +at one another, as if I meant to do you! I'm not going to have people +say my son shows the tradesman in him! I'm not going to have the +Lestranges knock under to the Armours! I'm going to have the rascal the +gentleman I can make him!--You're to go to college directly, sir; and +I don't want to hear of or from you till you've taken your degree! You +shall have two hundred a year and pay your own fees--not a penny more +if you go on your marrow-bones for it!--You understand? You're not to +attempt communicating with me. If there's anything I ought to know, let +your grandfather come to me. I will see him when he pleases--or go to +him, if he prefers it, and I'm not too gouty! Only, mind, I make no +promises! If I should leave all I have to the other lot, you will +have no right to complain. With the education I will give you, and the +independence your uncle has given you, and the good sense you have on +your own hook, you're provided for. You can be a doctor or a parson, you +know. There's more than one living in my gift. The Reverend sir Richard +Lestrange!--it don't sound amiss. I'm sorry I shan't hear it. I shall +be gone where they crop one of everything--even of his good works, +the parsons say, but I shan't be much the barer for that! It's hard, +confounded hard, though, when they're all a fellow has got!--Now don't +say a word! I don't like being contradicted!--not at all! It sends one +round on the other tack, I tell you--and there's my gout coming! Only +mind this: if once you say who you are as long as you're at college, or +before I give you leave, I have done with you. I won't have any little +plan of mine forestalled for your vanity! Don't any of you say who he +is. It will be better for him--much. If it be but hinted who he is, +he'll be courted and flattered, and then he'll be stuck up, and take +to spending money! But as sure as hell, if he goes beyond his +allowance--well, I'll pay it, but it shall be his last day at Oxford. He +shall go at once into the navy--or the excise, by George!” + +This expression of the baronet's will, if not quite to the satisfaction +of every one concerned, was altogether delightful to Richard. + +“May I say one word, sir?” he asked. + +“Yes, if it's not arguing.” + +“I've not read a page of Latin since I left school, and I never knew any +Greek.” + +“Oh! ah! I forgot that predicament! You must have a tutor to prepare +you!--but you shall go to Oxford with him. I will _not_ have you loafing +about here! You may remain with your grandfather till I find one, but +you're not to come near Mortgrange.” + +“I may go to London with my mother, may I not?” said Richard. + +“I see nothing against that. It will be the better way.” + +“If you please, sir Wilton,” said Mrs. Tuke, “I left evidence at +Mortgrange of what I should have to say.” + +“What sort of evidence?” + +“Things that belonged to the child and myself.” + +“Where?” + +“Hid in the nursery.” + +“My lady had everything moved, and the room fresh-papered after you +left. I remember that distinctly.” + +“Did she say nothing about finding anything?” + +“Nothing.--Of course she wouldn't!” + +“I left a box of my own, with--” + +“You'll never see it again.” + +“The things the child always wore when he went out, were under the +wardrobe.” + +“Oblige me by saying nothing about them. I am perfectly satisfied, and +believe every word you say. I believe Richard there the child of your +sister Robina and myself; and it shall not be my fault if he don't have +his rights! At the same time I promise nothing, and will manage things +as I see best.” + +“At your pleasure, sir!” answered Mrs. Tuke. + +“Should you mind, sir, if I went to see Mr. Wingfold before I go?” asked +Richard. + +“Who's he?” + +“The clergyman of the next parish, sir.” + +“I don't know him--don't want to know him!--What have you got to do with +_him_?” + +“He was kind to me when I was down here before.” + +“I don't care you should have much to do with the clergy.” + +“You said, sir, I might go into the church!” + +“_That's_ another thing quite! You would have the thing in your own +hands then!” + +Richard was silent. There was no point to argue. The moment sir Wilton +was gone, Simon turned to his grandson. + +“It was a pity you asked him about Mr. Wingfold. The only thing is you +mustn't let out his secret. As to seeing Mr. Wingfold, or Miss Wylder +either, just do as you please.” + +“No, grandfather. If I had not asked him, perhaps I might; but to ask +him, and then not do what he told me, would be a sneaking shame!” + +“You're right, my boy! Hold on that way, and you'll never be ashamed--or +make your people ashamed either.” + +For the meantime, then, Richard went to London with his mother; and so +anxious was old Simon, stimulated in part by the faithfulness of his +grandson, to do nothing that might thwart the pleasure of the tyrant, +that when first Wingfold asked after Richard, he told him he was at +home, and the next time that he was at work in the country. + +Richard went on helping his uncle, and going often to see his brother +and sister. When Arthur was able for the journey, both he and Alice went +with him. At the station they were met by Simon, with an old post-chaise +he had to mend up. Having seen Arthur comfortably settled, his brother +and sister went back to London together--Alice to go into a single room, +and betake herself once more to her work, but with new courage and hope; +Richard to the book-binding till his father should have found a tutor +for him. + +The Tukes were slowly becoming used, if not reconciled, to his care of +the Mansons. His mother, indignant for her deceased sister, stood out +the stiffest; the bookbinder could not fail to see that the youth was +but putting in practice the socialistic theories he had himself sought +to teach him. True, the thing came straight from the heart of Richard, +and went much farther than his uncle's theories; but his uncle counted +it the result of his own training, and woke at last to the fact that his +theories were better than he had himself known. + +With the help of the head of the college to which sir Wilton had +resolved to send his son, a tutor was at length found--happily for +Richard, one of the right sort. They went together to Oxford, and set to +work at once. It would be hard to say which of the two reaped the more +pleasure from the relation, or which, in the duplex process of teaching +and learning, gained the most. For the tutor had in Richard a pupil +of practised brain yet fresh, a live soul ready, for its own need and +nourishment, to use every truth it came near. His penetrative habit made +not a few regard him as a bore: their feeble vitality was troubled by +the energy of his; he could not let a thing go in which he descried a +principle: he must see it close! To the more experienced he was one +who had not yet learned, wisely fearful of the trampling hoof, to carry +aside his oyster with its possible pearl before he opened it. In earnest +about everything, he must work out his liberty before he could gambol. +A slave will amuse himself in his dungeon; a free man must file through +his chains and dig through his prison-walls before he can frolic. +Sunlight and air came through his open windows enough to keep Richard +alive and strong, but not enough yet to make him merry. He was too +solemn, thus, for most of those he met, but, happily, not for his tutor. +Finding Richard knew ten times as much of English literature as himself, +he became in this department his pupil's pupil; and listening to his +occasional utterance of a religious difficulty, had new regions of +thought opened in him, to the deepening and verifying of his nature. +The result for the tutor was that he sought ordination, in the hope of +giving to others what had at length become real to himself. + +Richard gained little distinction at his examinations. He did well +enough, but was too eager after real knowledge to care about appearing +to know. + +He made friends, but not many familiar friends. He sorely missed +ministration: it had grown a necessity of his nature. It was well that +the habit should be broken for a time. For, laden with consciousness, +and not full of God, the soul will delight in itself as a benefactor, a +regnant giver, the centre of thanks and obligation: and will thus, with +a rampart-mound of self-satisfaction, dam out the original creative life +of its being, the recognition of which is life eternal. But it grew upon +Richard that, if there be a God, it is the one business of a man to +find him, and that, if he would find him, he must obey the voice of his +conscience. + +As to the outward show of the man, Richard's carriage was improving. +Level intercourse with men of his own age but more at home in what is +called society, influenced his manners both with and without his will, +while, all the time, he was gathering the confidence of experience. His +rowing, and the daily run to and from the boats, with other exercises +prescribed by his tutor, strengthened the shoulders whose early stoop +had threatened to return with much reading. He was fast growing more +than presentable. With the men of his year, his character more than his +faculty had influence. + +Old Simon was doing his best for Arthur. He would not hear of his going +back to London, or attempting anything in the way of work beyond a +little in the garden. He was indeed nowise fit for more. + +The blacksmith himself was making progress--the best parts of him +were growing fast. Age was turning the strength into channels and +mill-streams, which before, wild-foaming, had flooded the meadows. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. _BARBARA AT HOME_. + +Barbara's brother, her father's twin, was fast following her mother's to +that somewhere each of us must learn for himself, no one can learn from +another. While they were in London, he was in the Isle of Wight with his +tutor. His mother and sister had several times gone to see him, but +he did not show much pleasure in their attentions, and was certainly +happier with his tutor than with any one else. Disease, however, was +making straight the path of Love. Now they were all at home at Wylder +Hall, and Death was on his way to join them. Love, however, was +watching, ready to wrest from him his sting--without which he is no more +Death, but Sleep. As the poor fellow grew weaker, his tutor became +less able to console him: and he could not look to his mother for the +tenderness he had seen her lavish on his brother. But the love of his +sister had always leaned toward him, ready, on the least opening of +the door of his heart, to show itself in the chink; and at last the +opportunity of being to him and doing for him what she could, arrived. +One day, on the lawn, he tripped and fell. The strong little Barbara +took him in her arms, and carried him to his room. When two drops of +water touch, the mere contact is not of long duration: the hearts of the +sister and the dying brother rushed into each other. After this, they +were seldom apart. A new life had waked in the very heart of death, and +grew and spread through the being of the boy. His eye became brighter, +not with fever only, but with love and content and hope; for Barbara +made him feel that nothing could part them; that they had been born into +the world for the hour when they should find one another--as now they +had found one another, to have one another to all eternity: it was an +end of their being! He would come creeping up to her as she worked or +read, and sit on a stool at her feet, asking for nothing, wishing for +nothing, content to be near her. But then Barbara's book or work was +soon banished. He was bigger than she, but the muscles of the little +maiden were as springs of steel, informed with the tenderest, strongest +heart in all the county, and presently he would find himself lifted to +her lap, his head on her shoulder, the sweetest voice in all the world +whispering loveliest secrets in his willing ear, and her face bent over +him with the stoop of heaven over the patient, weary earth. In her arms +his poor wasting body forgot its restlessness; the fever that irritated +every nerve, burning away the dust of the world, seemed to pause and let +him grow a little cool; and the sleep that sometimes came to him there +was sweet as death. The face that had so long looked peevish, wore now a +waiting look: in heaven, every one sheltered the other, and the arms of +God were round them all! + +One day the mother peeped in, and saw them seated thus. Motherhood, +strong in her, though hitherto, as regarded the boy, poisoned by her +strife with her husband, moved and woke at the sight of her natural +place occupied by her daughter. + +“Let me take him, poor fellow!” she said. + +Delighted that her mother should do something for him, Barbara rose with +him in her arms. The mother sat down, and Barbara laid him in her lap. +But the mother felt him lie listless and dead; no arm came creeping +feebly up to encircle her neck. One of her babies died unborn, and she +knew the moment the strange sad feeling of the time came back to her +now; she felt through all her sensitive maternal body that her child did +not care for her. Grown, through her late illness, at once weaker and +tenderer, she burst into silent weeping. He looked up; the convulsion of +her pain had roused him from a half-sleep. A tear dropped on his face. + +“Don't rain, mamma! I will be good!” he said, and held his mouth to be +kissed. + +He was much too old for such baby-speech, but as he grew weaker, he had +grown younger; and it seemed now as if, in his utter helplessness, he +would go back to the bosom of his mother. She clasped him to her, and +from that moment she and Barbara shared him between them. + +So for a while, Barbara had not the same room to think about Richard; +but when she did think of him, it was always in the some loving, +trusting, hoping way. + +When in London, she went to all the parties to which she was expected +to go, and enjoyed them--after her own fashion. She loved her kind, and +liked their company up to a point. But often would the crowd and the +glitter, the motion and iridescence, vanish from her, and she sit there +a live soul dreaming within closed doors. She would be pacing her weary +pony through a pale land, under a globose moon, homeward; or, on the +back of one of her father's fleet horses, sweeping eastward over the +grassy land, in the level light of the setting sun, watching the strange +herald-shadow of herself and her horse rushing away before them, ever +more distort as it fled:--like some ghastly monster, in horror at +itself, it hurried to the infinite, seeking blessed annihilation, and +ever gathering speed as the sun of its being sank, till at last it +gained the goal of its nirvana, not by its well run race, but in the +darkness of its vanished creator. Then with a sigh would Barbara come to +herself, the centre of many regards. + +Arthur Lestrange found himself no nearer to her than before--farther +off indeed; for here he was but one among many that sought her. But +her behaviour to him was the same in a crowded room in London as in the +garden at Mortgrange. She spoke to him kindly, turned friendly to him +when he addressed her, and behaved so that the lying hint of lady Ann, +that they had been for some time engaged, was easily believed. A certain +self-satisfied, well-dressed idiot, said it was a pity a girl like that, +a little Amazon, who, for as innocent as she looked, could ride backward +and steer her steed straight, should marry a half-baked brick like +Lestrange: Arthur, though he was not one of the worthiest, was worth ten +of him, faultless as were his coats and neckties! + +Her father had several times said to her that it was time she should +marry, but had never got nearer anything definite; for there her eyes +would flash, and her mouth close tight--compelling the reflection that +her mother had been more than enough for him, and he had better not +throw his daughter into the opposition as well. He could not, he +saw clearly, prevail with her against her liking; but it would be an +infernal pity, he thought, seeing poor Marcus must go, if she would not +have Lestrange; for the properties would marry splendidly, and then +who could tell what better title might not stand on the top of the +baronetcy! + +Lady Ann would not let her hope go. She grew daily more fearful of the +cloud that hung in the future: out of it might at any moment step +the child of her enemy, the low-born woman who had dared to be lady +Lestrange before her! Then where would she and her children be! That her +Arthur would not succeed him, would be a morsel to sweeten her husband's +death for him! It would be life in death to him to spite the woman he +had married! At one crisis in their history, he had placed in her hands +a will that left everything to her son; but he might have made ten wills +after that one! She knew she had done nothing to please him: she had in +fact never spent a thought on making life a good thing to the man she +had married. She wished she had endeavoured or might now endeavour to +make herself agreeable to him. But it was too late! Sir Wilton would +instantly imagine a rumour of the lost heir, and be on the alert for her +discomfiture! If only he had not yet made a later will! He must die one +day: why not in time to make his death of use when his life was of none! +No one would wonder he had preferred the offspring of her noble person +to the lost brat of the peasant woman! + +How far over the line that separates guilt from greed, lady Ann might +not have gone had she been sure of not being found out, she herself +could not have told. The look of things is very different at night and +in the morning; the bed-chamber can shelter what would be a horror in a +court of justice; a conscience at peace in its own darkness will shudder +in the gaslight of public opinion. It is marvellous that what we call +_the public_, a mere imbecile as to judgment, should yet possess the +Godlike power of awakening the individual conscience--and that with its +own large dullness of conscience! Truly the relation of the world to +its maker cannot primarily be an intellectual one; it must be a relation +tremendously deeper! We do not, I mean, to speak after the manner of +men, come of God's intellect, but of his imagination. He did not make us +with his hands, but loved us out of his heart. + +The same week in which sir Wilton gave that will into his lady's +keeping, he executed a second, in which he made the virtue of the former +depend on the non-appearance of the lost heir. Of this will he said +nothing to his wife. Even from the grave he would hold a shadowy yet not +impotent rod over her and her family! Lady Ann suspected something of +the sort, and spent every moment safe from his possible appearance, in +searching for some such hidden torpedo. But there was one thing of which +sir Wilton took better care than of his honour--and that was his bunch +of keys. + +After the return of the Lestranges and the Wylders to their +country-homes, lady Ann, having prevailed, on Mrs. Wylder to pay her a +visit, initiated an attempt to gain her connivance in her project for +the alliance of the houses. For this purpose she opened upon her with +the same artillery she had employed against her husband. Mrs. Wylder sat +for some time quietly listening, but looking so like her daughter, that +lady Ann saw the mother's and not the father's was the alliance to seek. +Thereupon she plucked the tompion out of the best gun in her battery, as +she thought, and began to hint a fear that Miss Wylder had taken a fancy +to a person unworthy of her. + +“Girls who have not been much in society,” she said, “are not +unfrequently the sport of strange infatuations! I have myself known +an earl's daughter marry a baker! I do not, of course, imagine _your_ +daughter guilty of the slightest impropriety,--” + +Scarcely had the word left her lips, when a fury stood before +her--towered above her, eyes flashing and mouth set, as if on the point +of tearing her to pieces. + +“Say the word and my Bab in the same breath again, and I'll throttle +you, you vile woman!” cried Mrs. Wylder, and hung there like a +thunder-cloud, lightening continuously. + +Lady Ann was not of a breed familiar with fear, but, for the first time +in her life, except in the presence of her mother, a far more formidable +person than herself, she did feel afraid--of what, she would have found +it hard to say, for to acknowledge the possibility of personal violence +would be almost as undignified as to threaten it! + +“I did not mean to offend you,” she said, growing a little paler, but at +the same time more rigid. + +“What sort of mother do you take me for? Offended, indeed! Would you be +all honey, I should like to know, if I had the assurance, to say such a +thing of one of your girls?” + +“I spoke as to a mother who knew what girls are like!” + +“You don't know what my girl Bab is like!” cried Mrs. Wylder, with +something that much resembled an imprecation: the word she used would +shock thousands of mothers not comparable to her in motherhood. If +propriety were righteousness, the kingdom of heaven would be already +populous. + +Lady Ann was offended, and seriously: was alliance with such a woman +permissible or sufferable? But she was silent. For once in her life +she did not know the proper thing to say. Was the woman mad, or only a +savage? + +Mrs. Wylder's eloquence required opposition. She turned away, and with a +backward glance of blazing wrath, left the room and the house. + +“Home like the devil!” she said to the footman as he closed the door of +the carriage--and she disappeared in a whirlwind. + +From the library sir Wilton saw her stormy exit and departure. “By +Jove!” he said to himself, “that woman must be one of the right sort! +She's what my Ruby might have been by this time if she'd been spared! A +hundred to one, my lady was insolent to her!--said something cool about +her mad-cap girl, probably! _She's_ the right sort, by Jove, that little +Bab! If only my Richard now, leathery fellow, would glue on to her! +There's nothing left in this cursed world of the devil and all his +angels that I should like half so well! I'll put him up to it, I will! +Arthur and she indeed! As if a plate of porridge like Arthur would draw +a fireflash like Bab! I'd give the whole litter of 'em, and throw in the +dam, to call that plucky little robin my girl! I'd give my soul to have +such a girl!” + +It did not occur to him that his soul for Barbara would scarcely be fair +barter. + +“Dick's well enough,” he went on, “but he's a man, and you've got to +quarrel with him! I'm tired of quarrelling!” + +The instant she reached home, Mrs. Wylder sent for her daughter, and +demanded, fury still blazing in her eyes, what she had been doing to +give that beast of a lady Ann a right to talk. + +“Tell me first how she talked, mamma,” returned Barbara, used to her +mother's ways, and nowise annoyed at being so addressed. “I can't have +been doing anything very bad, for she's been doing what she can to get +me and keep me.” + +“She has?--And you never told me!” + +“I didn't think it worth telling you.--She's been setting papa on to me +too!” + +“Oh! I see! And you wouldn't set him and me on each other! Dutiful +child! You reckoned you'd had enough of that! But I'll have no buying +and selling of my goods behind my back! If you speak one more civil word +to that young jackanapes Lestrange, you shall hear it again on both your +ears!” + +“I will not speak an uncivil word to him, mamma; he has never given me +occasion; but I shan't break my heart if I never see him again. If you +like, I won't once go near the place. Theodora's the only one I care +about--and she's as dull as she is good!” + +“What did the kangaroo mean by saying you were sweet on somebody not +worthy of you?” + +“I know what she meant, mother; but the man is worthy of a far better +woman than me--and I hope he'll get her some day!” + +Thereupon little Bab burst into tears, half of rage, half of dread lest +her good wish for Richard should be granted otherwise than she meant it. +For she did not at the moment desire very keenly that he should get all +he deserved, but thought she might herself just do, while she did hope +to be a better woman before the day arrived. + +“Come, come, child! None of that! I don't like it. I don't want to cry +on the top of my rage. What is the man? Who is he? What does the woman +know about him?” + +At once Barbara began, and told her mother the whole story of Richard +and herself. The mother listened. Old days and the memory of a lover, +not high in the social scale, whom she had to give up to marry Mr. +Wylder, came back upon her and her heart went with her daughter's before +she knew what it was about; her daughter's love and her own seemed to +mingle in one dusky shine, as if the daughter had inherited the mother's +experience. The heart of the mother would not have her child like +herself gather but weed-flowers of sorrow among the roses in the garden +of love. She had learned this much, that the things the world prizes are +of little good to still the hearts of women But when Barbara told her +how lady Ann would have it that this same Richard, the bookbinder, was a +natural son of sir Wilton, she started to her feet, crying, + +“Then the natural bookbinder shall have her, and my lady's fool may go +to the devil! You shall have _my_ money, Bab, anyhow.” + +“But, mammy dear,” said Barbara, “what will papa say?” + +“Poof!” returned her mother. “I've known him too long to care what he +says!” + +“I don't like offending him,” returned Barbara. + +“Don't mention him again, child, or I'll turn him loose on your +bookbinder. Am I to put my own ewe-lamb to the same torture I had +to suffer by marrying him! God forbid I When you're happy with your +husband, perhaps you'll think of me sometimes and say, 'My mother did +it! She wasn't a good woman, but she loved her Bab!'” + +A passionate embrace followed. Barbara left the room with a happy heart, +and went--not to her own to brood on her love, but to her brother's, +whose feeble voice she heard calling her. Upon him her gladness +overflowed. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. _MISS BROWN_. + +The same evening Barbara rode to the smithy, in the hope of hearing some +news of Richard from his grandfather. The old man was busy at the anvil +when he heard Miss Brown's hoofs on the road. He dropped his hammer, +flung the tongs on the forge, and leaving the iron to cool on the anvil, +went to meet her. + +“How do you do, grandfather?” said Barbara, with unconscious use of the +appellation. + +Simon was well pleased to be called grandfather, but too politic and too +well bred to show his pleasure. + +“As well as hard work can help me to. How are you yourself, my pretty?” + returned Simon. + +“As well as nothing to do--except nursing poor Mark--will let me,” she +answered. “Please can you tell me anything about Richard yet?” + +“Can you keep a secret, honey?” rejoined Simon. “I ain't sure as +I'm keeping strict within the law, but if I didn't think you fit, I +shouldn't say a word.” + +“Don't tell me, if it be anything I ought to tell if I knew it.” + +“If you can show me you ought to tell any one, I will release you from +your promise. But perhaps you feel you ought to tell everything to your +mother?” + +“No, not other people's secrets. But I think I won't have it. I don't +like secrets. I'm frightened at them.” + +“Then I'll tell you at my own risk, for you're the right sort to trust, +promise or no promise. I only hope you will not tell without letting +me know first; because then I might have to do something else by way +of--what do they call it when you take poison, and then take something +to keep it from hurting you?--Richard's gone to college!” + +Bab slid from Miss Brown's back, flung her arms, with the bridle on +one of them, round the blacksmith's neck, and, heedless of Miss Brown's +fright, jumped up, and kissed the old man for the good news. + +“Miss! miss! your clean face!” cried the blacksmith. + +“Oh Richard! Richard! you _will_ be happy now!” she said, her voice +trembling with buried tears. “--But will he ever shoe Miss Brown again, +grandfather?” + +“Many's the time, I trust!” answered Simon. “He'll be proud to do it. If +not, he never was worth a smile from your sweet mouth.” + +“He'll be a great man some day!” she laughed, with a little quiver of +the sweet mouth. + +“He's a good man now, and I don't care,” answered the smith. “As long as +son of mine can look every man in the face, I don't care whether it be +great or small he is.” + +“But, please, Mr. Armour,” said Bab timidly, “wouldn't it be better +still if he could look God in the face?” + +“You're right there, my pretty dove!” replied the old man; “only a +body can't say everything out in a breath!--But you're right, you _are_ +right!” he went on. “I remember well the time when I thought I had +nothing to be ashamed of; but the time came when I was ashamed of many +things, and I'd done nothing worse in the meantime either! When a man +first gets a peep inside himself, he sees things he didn't look to +see--and they stagger him a bit! Some horses have their hoofs so shrunk +and cockled they take the queerest shoes to set them straight; an' them +shoes is the troubles o' this life, I take it.--Now mind, I ain't +told you what college he's gone to--nor whether it be at Oxford or at +Cambridge, or away in Scotland or Germany--and you don't know! And if +you don't feel bound to mention the name of the place, I'd be obliged +to you not to. But I will let him know that I've told you what sort of a +place he's at, because he couldn't tell you himself, being he's bound to +hold his tongue.” + +Barbara went home happy: his grandfather recognized the bond between +them! As to Richard, she had no fear of his forgetting her. + +With more energy still, she went about her duties; and they seemed +to grow as she did them. As the end of Mark's sickness approached, he +became more and more dependent upon her, and only his mother could take +her place with him. He loved his father dearly, but his father never +staid more than a moment or two in the sick-chamber. Mark at length went +away to find his twin; and his mother and Barbara wept, but not all in +sorrow. + +One morning, the week after Mark's death, Mr. Wylder desired Barbara to +go with him to his study--where indeed about as much study went on as +in a squirrel's nest--and there, after solemn prologue as to its having +been right and natural while she was but a girl with a brother that +she should be allowed a great deal of freedom, stated that now, +circumstances being changed, such freedom could no longer be given her: +she was now sole heiress, and must do as an heir would have had to do, +namely, consult the interests of the family. In those interests, he +continued, it was necessary he should strengthen as much as possible his +influence in the county; it was time also that, for her own sake, she +should marry; and better husband or fitter son-in-law than Mr. Lestrange +could not be desired: he was both well behaved and good-looking, and +when Mortgrange was one with Wylder, would have by far the finest estate +in the county! + +Filial obligation is a point upon which those parents lay the heaviest +stress who have done the least to develop the relation between them and +their children. The first duty is from the parent to the child: this +unfulfilled, the duty of the child remains untaught. + +“I am sorry to go against you, papa,” said Barbara, “but I cannot marry +Mr. Lestrange!” + +“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?” + +“Because I do not love him.” + +“Fiddlesticks! I did not love your mother when I married her!--You don't +dislike him, I know!--Now don't tell me you do, for I shall not believe +you!” + +“He is always very kind to me, and I am sorry he should want what is not +mine to give him.” + +“Not yours to give him! What do you mean by that? If it is not yours, +it is mine! Have you not learned yet, that when I make up my mind to +a thing, that thing is done! And where I have a right, I am not one to +waive it!” + +Where husband and wife are not one, it is impossible for the daughter to +be one with both, or perhaps with either; and the constant and foolish +bickering to which Barbara had been a witness throughout her childhood, +had tended rather to poison than nourish respect. Whether Barbara failed +to yield as much as Mr. Wylder had a right to claim, I leave to the +judgment of my reader, reserving my own, and remarking only that, if +his judgment be founded on principles differing from mine, our judgments +cannot agree. The idea of parent must be venerated, and may cast a glow +upon the actual parent, himself nowise venerable, so that the heart of a +daughter may ache with the longing to see her father such that she could +love and worship him as she would; but when it comes to life and action, +the will of such a parent, if it diverge from what seems to the child +true and right, ought to weigh nothing. A parent is not a maker, is not +God. We must leave father and mother and all for God, that is, for what +is right, which is his very will--only let us be sure it is for God, +and not for self. If the parent has been the parent of good thoughts and +right judgments in the child, those good thoughts and right judgments +will be on the parent's side: if he has been the parent of evil thoughts +and false judgments, they may be for him or against him, but in the end +they will work solely for division. Any general decay of filial manners +must originate with the parents. + +“I am not a child. I am a woman,” said Barbara; “and I owe it to him who +made me a woman, to take care of her.” + +“Mind what you say. I have rights, and will enforce them.” + +“Over my person?” returned Barbara, her eyes sending out a flash that +reminded him of her mother, and made him the angrier. + +“If you do not consent here and now,” he said sternly, “to marry Mr. +Lestrange--that is, if, after your mother's insolence to lady Ann.--” + +“My mother's insolence to lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara, drawing herself, +in her indignation, to the height of her small person: but her father +would rush to his own discomfiture. + +“--if, as I say,” he went on, “he should now condescend to ask you--I +swear--” + +“You had better not swear, papa!” + +“--I swear you shall not have a foot of my land.” + +“Oh! that is all? There you are in your right, and I have nothing to +say.” + +“You insolent hussy! You won't like it when you find it done!” + +“It will be the same as if Mark had lived.” + +“It's that cursed money of your mother's makes you impudent!” + +“If you could leave me moneyless, papa, it would make no difference. A +woman that can shoe her own horse,--” + +“Shoe her own horse!” cried her father. + +“Yes, papa!--You couldn't!--And I _made_ two of her shoes the last time! +Wouldn't any woman that can do that, wouldn't she--to save herself from +shame and disgust--to be queen over herself--wouldn't she take a place +as house-maid or shop-girl rather than marry the man she didn't love?” + +Mr. Wylder saw he had gone too far. + +“You know more than is good!” he said. “But don't you mistake: you're +mother's money is settled on you, but your father is your trustee!” + +“My father is a gentleman!” rejoined Barbara--not so near the truth as +she believed. + +“Take you care how you push a gentleman,” rejoined her father. + +“Not to love is not to marry--not if the man was a prince!” persisted +Barbara. + +She went to her mother's room, but said nothing of what had passed. She +would not heat those ovens of wrath, the bosoms of her parents. + +The next morning she ran to saddle Miss Brown. To her astonishment, her +friend was not in her box, nor in any stall in the stable; neither was +any one visible of whom to ask what had become of her; for the first +time in her life, everybody had got out of Barbara's way. In the +harness-room, however, she came upon one of the stable-boys. He was in +tears. When he saw her, he started and turned to run, looking as if he +had had a piece of Miss Brown for breakfast, but she stopped him. + +“Where is Miss Brown?” she said. + +“Don' know, miss.” + +“Who knows, then?” + +“P'raps master, miss.” + +“What are you crying for?” + +“Don' know, miss.” + +“That's not true. Boys don't cry without knowing why?” + +“Well, miss, I ain't _sure_ what I'm crying for.” + +“Speak out, man! Don't be foolish.” + +“Master give me a terrible cut, miss!” + +“Did you deserve it?” + +“Don' know, miss.” + +“You don't seem to know anything this morning!” + +“No, miss!” + +“What did your master give you the cut for?” + +“'Cause I was cryin'.” + +Here he burst into a restrained howl. + +“What were you crying for?” + +“Because Miss Brown was gone.” + +“And you cried without knowing where she was gone?” said Barbara, +turning almost sick with apprehension. + +“Yes, miss,” affirmed the miserable boy. + +“Is she dead?” + +“No, miss, she ain't dead; she's sold!” + +The words were not yet out of his mouth when he turned and bolted. + +“That's my gentleman-papa!” said Barbara to herself before she could +help it. Had she been any girl but Barbara, she would have cried like +the boy. + +Not once from that moment did she allude to Miss Brown in the hearing of +father or servant. + +One day her mother asked her why she never rode, and she told her. The +wrath of the mother was like that of a tigress. She sprang to her feet, +and bounded to the door. But when she reached it, Barbara was between +her and the handle. + +“Mother! mother dear!” she pleaded. + +The mother took her by the shoulders, and thought to fling her across +the room. But she was not so strong as she had been, and she found the +little one hard as nails: she could not move her an inch. + +“Get out of my way!” she cried, “I want to kill him!” + +“Mammy dear, listen! It's a month ago! I said nothing--for love-sake!” + +“Love-sake! I think I hear you! Dare to tell me you love that wretch of +a father of yours! I will kill _you_ if you say you love him!” + +Barbara threw her arms round her mother's neck, and said, “Listen, +mammy: I do love him a little bit: but it wasn't for love of him I held +my tongue.” + +“Bah! Your bookbinder-fellow! What has he to do with it?” + +“Nothing at all. It wasn't for him either, it was for God's sake I held +my peace, mammy. If _all_ his children quarrelled like you and dad, what +a house he would have! It was for God's sake I said nothing; and you +know, mammy, you've made it up with God, and you mustn't go and be +naughty again!” + +The mother stood silent and still. It seemed for an instant as if the +old fever had come back, for she shivered. She turned and went to her +chair, sat down, and again was still. A minute after, her forehead +flushed like a flame, turned white, then flushed and paled again several +times. Then she gave a great sigh, and the conflict was over. She +smiled, and from that moment she also never said a word about Miss +Brown. + +But in the silence of her thought, Barbara suffered, for what might not +be the fate of Miss Brown! No one but a genuine lover of animals would +believe how she suffered. In her mind's eye she kept seeing her turn her +head with sharp-curved neck in her stall, or shoot it over the door of +her box, looking and longing for her mistress, and wondering why she did +not come to pat her, or feed her, or saddle her for the joyous gallop +across grass and green hedge; and the heart of her mistress was sore for +her. But at length one day in church, they read the psalm in which come +the words, “Thou, Lord, shalt save both man and beast!” and they went to +her soul. She reflected that if Miss Brown was in trouble, it might +be for the saving of Miss Brown: she had herself got enough good +from trouble to hope for that! For she heartily believed the animals +partakers in the redemption of Jesus Christ; and she fancied perhaps +they knew more about it than we think,--the poor things are so silent! +Anyhow she saw that the reasonable thing was to let God look after his +own; and if Miss Brown was not his, how could she _be_? + +But the mother was sending all over the country to find who had Miss +Brown; and she had not inquired long before she learned that she was in +the stables at Mortgrange. There she knew she would be well treated, and +therefore told Barbara the result of her inquiries. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. _WINGFOLD AND BARBARA_. + +Barbara went yet oftener to Mr. and Mrs. Wingfold. By this time, through +Simon Armour, they knew something about Richard, but none of them all +felt at liberty to talk about him. + +Barbara had now a better guide in her reading than Richard. True reader +as he had been, Wingfold's acquaintance both with literature and its +history, that is, its relation to the development of the people, was as +much beyond the younger man's as it ought to be. What in Barbara Richard +had begun well, Wingfold was carrying on better. + +With his help she was now studying, to no little advantage, more than +one subject connected with the main interest common to her and Richard: +and she thought constantly of what Richard would say, and how she would +answer him. Hence, naturally, she had the more questions to put to her +tutor. Now Wingfold had passed through all Richard's phases, and through +some that were only now beginning to show in him; therefore he was well +prepared to help her--although there was this difference between the +early moral conditions of the two men, that Wingfold had been prejudiced +in favour of much that he found it impossible to hold, whereas Richard +had been prejudiced against much that ought to be cast away. + +Richard suffered not a little at times from his enforced silence: +what might not happen because he must not speak? But hearing nothing +discouraging from his grandfather, he comforted himself in hope. He knew +that in him he had a strong ally, and that Barbara loved the hot-hearted +blacksmith, recognizing in him a more genuine breeding, as well as a far +greater capacity, than in either sir Wilton or her father. He toiled on +doing his duty, and receiving in himself the reward of the same, with +further reward ever at the door. For there is no juster law than the +word, “To him that hath shall be given.” + +“Why do I never see you on Miss Brown?” asked Wingfold one day of +Barbara. + +“For a reason I think I ought not to tell you.” + +“Then don't tell me,” returned the parson. + +But by a mixture of instinctive induction, and involuntary intuition, he +saw into the piece of domestic tyranny, and did what he could to make up +for it, by taking her every now and then a long walk or drive with +his wife and their little boy. He gave her strong hopeful things to +read--and in the search after such was driven to remark how little of +the hopeful there is in the English, or in any other language. The song +of hope is indeed written in men's hearts, but few sing it. Yet it is of +all songs the sorest-needed of struggling men. + +Heart and brain, Wingfold was full of both humour and pathos. In their +walks and drives, many a serious subject would give occasion to the +former, and many a merry one to the latter. Sometimes he would take +a nursery-rime for his theme, and expatiate upon it so, that at one +instant Barbara would burst into the gayest laughter, and the next +have to restrain her tears. Rarely would Wingfold enter a sick-chamber, +especially that of a cottage, with a long face and a sermon in his soul; +almost always he walked lightly in, with a cheerful look, and not seldom +an odd story on his tongue, well pleased when he could make the sufferer +laugh--better pleased sometimes when he had made him sorry. He did not +find those that laughed the readiest the hardest to make sorry. He moved +his people by infecting their hearts with the feeling in his own. + +Having now for many years cared only for the will of God, he was full +of joy. For the will of the Father is the root of all his children's +gladness, of all their laughter and merriment. The child that loves the +will of the Father, is at the heart of things; his will is _with_ the +motion of the eternal wheels; the eyes of all those wheels are opened +upon him, and he knows whence he came. Happy and fearless and hopeful, +he knows himself the child of him from whom he came, and his peace +and joy break out in light. He rises and shines. Bliss creative and +energetic there is none other, on earth or in heaven, than the will of +the Father. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. _THE BARONET'S WILL_. + +Arthur Lestrange was sharply troubled when he found he was to see no +more of Barbara. He went again and again to Wylder Hall, but neither +mother nor daughter would receive him. When he learned that Miss +Brown was for sale, he bought her for love of her mistress. All the +explanation he could get from lady Ann was, that the young woman's +mother was impossible; she was more than half a savage. + +Time's wheels went slow thereafter at Mortgrange. Sir Wilton missed his +firstborn. Whatever annoyed him in his wife or any of her children, +fed the desire for Richard. Arthur did not please him. He had no way +distinguished himself--and some men are annoyed when their sons prove +only a little better than themselves. Percy was a poisoned thorn in his +side: he was even worse than his father. All his thoughts took refuge in +Richard. + +He had become dissatisfied with his agent, and although he had never +taken an interest in business, distrust made him now look into things +a little. He called his lawyer from London, and had him make a thorough +investigation. Dismissing thereupon his agent, he would have Arthur +take charge of the estate; but the young man, with an inborn dislike to +figures, flatly refused, saying he preferred the army. Sir Wilton did +not like the army: he had been in it himself, and had left it in a +hurry--no one ever knew why. + +The only comfort in the house occupied the soul of lady Ann: it was that +she heard nothing of the bookbinder fellow! She had grown so torpid, +that while Danger was not flattening his nose against the window-pane, +she was at peace. For the rest, a lawyer of her own had the will in his +keeping, and she had come upon no trace of another. + +But when sir Wilton sent for his lawyer to look into his factor's +accounts, he had a further use for him, of which his wife heard nothing: +he made him draw up another will, in which he left everything to +Richard, only son of his first wife, Robina Armour. With every +precaution for secrecy, the will was signed and witnessed, but when the +lawyer would have carried it with him, the baronet declined to give it +up. He laid it aside for a week, then had the horses put to, and drove +to find Mr. Wingfold, of whom he had heard from Richard. When he saw +him, man of the world as he was, he was impressed by the simplicity of +a clergyman without a touch of the clerical, without any look of what he +called _sanctity_--the look that comes upon a man cherishing the notion +that he is intrusted with things more sacred than God will put in the +hands of his other children. Such men, and they are many, one would like +to lay for a time in the sheet of Peter's vision, among the four-footed +animals and creeping things, to learn that, as there is nothing common +or unclean, so is there no class more sacred than another. Never will it +be right with men, until every commonest meal is a glad recognition +of the living Saviour who gives himself, always and perfectly, to his +brothers and sisters. + +The baronet begged a private interview, and told the parson he wanted +to place in his keeping a certain paper, with the understanding that he +would not open it for a year after his death, and would then act upon +the directions contained in it. + +“Provided always,” Wingfold stipulated, “that they require of me nothing +unfit, impossible, or wrong.” + +“I pledge myself they require nothing unworthy of the cloth,” said sir +Wilton. + +“The cloth be hanged!” said Wingfold. “Do they require anything unworthy +of a man--or if you think the word means more--of a gentleman?” + +“They do not,” answered the baronet. + +“Then you must write another paper, stating that you have asked me to +undertake this, but that you have given me no hint of the contents of +the accompanying document. This second you must enclose with the first, +sealing the envelope with your own seal.” + +Sir Wilton at once consented, and there and then did as Wingfold +desired. + +“I've check-mated my lady at last!” he chuckled, as he drove home. “She +would have me the villain to disinherit my firstborn for her miserable +brood! She shall find my other will, and think she's safe! Then the +thunderbolt--and Dick master! My lady's dower won't be much for Percy +the cad and Arthur the proper, not to mention Dorothy the cow, and Vixen +the rat!” + +He always spoke as if lady Ann's children were none of his. Her ladyship +had taught him to do so, for she always said, “_My_ children!” + +That night he slept with an easier mind. He had put the deed off and +off, regarding it as his abdication; but now it was done he felt more +comfortable. + +Wingfold suspected in the paper some provision for Richard, but could +imagine no reason for letting it lie unopened until a year should have +passed from the baronet's death. Troubling himself nothing, however, +about what was not his business, he put the paper carefully aside--but +where he must see it now and then, lest it should pass from his mind, +and with sir Wilton's permission, told his wife what he had undertaken +concerning it, that she might carry it out if he were prevented from +doing so. + +Time went on. Communication grew yet less between Mr. Wylder and his +family. He had returned to certain old habits, and was spending money +pretty fast in London. Failing to make himself a god in the house, he +forsook it, and was rapidly losing this world's chance of appreciating a +woman whose faults were to his as new wine to dirty water. + +In the fourth year, Richard wrote to his father, through his grandfather +of course, informing him he had got his B.A. degree, and was waiting +further orders. The baronet was heartily pleased with the style of his +letter, and in the privacy of his own room gave way to his delight at +the thought of his wife's approaching consternation and chagrin. At +the same time, however, he was not a little uneasy in prospect of the +denouement. For the eyes of his wife had become almost a terror to him. +Their grey ice, which had not grown clearer as it grew older, made +him shiver. Why should the stronger so often be afraid of the weaker? +Sometimes, I suppose, because conscience happens to side with the +weaker; sometimes only because the weaker is yet able to make the +stronger, especially if he be lazy and a lover of what he calls peace, +worse than uncomfortable. The baronet dared not present his son to +his wife except in the presence of at least one stranger. He wrote to +Richard, appointing a day for his appearance at Mortgrange. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. _THE HEIR_. + +It was a lovely morning when Richard, his heart beating with a hope +whose intensity of bliss he had never imagined, stopped at the station +nearest to Mortgrange, and set out to walk there in the afternoon sun. +June folded him in her loveliness of warmth and colour. The grass +was washed with transparent gold: he saw both the gold and the green +together, but unmingled. Often had he walked the same road, a contented +tradesman; a gentleman now, with a baronet to his father, he loved, +and knew he must always love the tradesman-uncle more than the +baronet-father. He was much more than grateful to his father for his +ready reception of him, and his care of his education; but he could +not be proud of him as of his mother and his aunt and uncle and his +grandfather. He held it one of God's greatest gifts to come of decent +people; and if in his case the decency was on one side only, it was the +more his part to stop the current of transmitted evil, and in his own +person do what he might to annihilate it! + +His only anxiety was lest his father should again lay upon him the +command to cease communication with his brother and sister. He lifted up +his heart to God, and vowed that not for anything the earth could give +would he obey. The socialism he had learned from his uncle had undergone +a baptism to something infinitely higher. He prayed God to keep him +clean of heart, and able to hold by his duty. He promised God--it was +a way he had when he would bind himself to do right--that he would not +forsake his own, would not break the ties of blood for any law, custom, +prejudice, or pride of man. The vow made his heart strong and light. But +he felt there was little merit in the act, seeing he could live without +his father's favour. He saw how much harder it would be for a poor +tradeless man like Arthur Lestrange to make such a resolve. In the face +of such a threat from his father what could he do?--where find courage +to resist? Resist he must, or be a slave, but hard indeed it would be! +Every father, thought Richard, who loved his children, ought to make +them independent of himself, that neither clog, nor net, nor hindrance +of any kind might hamper the true working of their consciences: then +would the service they rendered their parents be precious indeed! then +indeed would love be lord, and neither self, nor the fear of man, nor +the fear of fate be a law in their life! + +He had not sent word to his grandfather that he was coming, and had told +his father that he would walk from the station--which suited sir Wilton, +for he felt nervous, and was anxious there should be no stir. So Richard +came to Mortgrange as quietly as a star to its place. + +When he reached the gate and walked in as of old, he was challenged by +the woman who kept it: of all the servants she and lady Ann's maid had +alone treated him with rudeness, and now she was not polite although she +did not know him. Neither was he recognized by the man who opened the +door. + +Sir Wilton sat in the library expecting him. A gentleman was with him, +but he kept in the background, seemingly absorbed in the titles of a row +of books. + +“There you are, you rascal!” his father was on the point of saying as +Richard came into the light of the one big bow-window, but, instead, +he gazed at him for an instant in silence. Before him was one of the +handsomest fellows his eyes had ever rested upon--broad-shouldered +and tall and straight, with a thoughtful yet keen face, of which every +feature was both fine and solid, and dark brown hair with night and +firelight in it, and a touch of the sun here and there at moments. The +situation might have been embarrassing to a more experienced man than +Richard as he waited for his father to speak; but he stood quite at his +ease, slightly bent, and motionless, neither hands nor feet giving him +any of the trouble so often caused by those outlying provinces. The +slight colour that rose in his rather thin cheeks, only softened the +beauty of a face whose outline was severe. He stood like a soldier +waiting the word of his officer. + +“By Jove!” said his father; and there was another pause. + +The baronet was momently growing prouder of his son. He had never had a +feeling like it before. He saw his mother in him. + +“She's looking at me straight out of his eyes!” he said to himself. + +“Ain't you going to sit down?” he said to him at last, forgetting that +he had neither shaken hands with him, nor spoken a word of welcome. + +Richard moved a chair a little nearer and sat down, wondering what would +come next. + +“Well, what are you going to do?” asked his father. + +“I must first know your wish, sir,” he answered. + +“Church won't do?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Glad to hear it! You're much too good for the church!--No offence, Mr. +Wingfold! The same applies to yourself.” + +“So my uncle on the stock-exchange used to say!” answered Wingfold, +laughing, as he turned to the baronet. “He thought me good enough, I +suppose, for a priest of Mammon!” + +“I'm glad you're not offended. What do you think of that son of mine?” + +“I have long thought well of him.” + +At the first sound of his voice, Richard had risen, and now approached +him, his hand outstretched. + +“Mr. Wingfold!” he said joyfully. + +“I remember now!” returned sir Wilton; “it was from him I heard of you; +and that was what made me seek your acquaintance.--He promises fairly, +don't you think?--Shoulders good; head well set on!” + +“He looks a powerful man!” said Wingfold. “--We shall be happy to see +you, Mr. Lestrange, as soon as you care to come to us.” + +“That will be to-morrow, I hope, sir,” answered Richard. + +“Stop, stop!” cried sir Wilton. “We know nothing for certain yet!--By +the bye, if your stepmother don't make you particularly welcome, you +needn't be surprised, my boy!” + +“Certainly not. I could hardly expect her to be pleased, sir!” + +“Not pleased? Not pleased at what? Now, now, don't you presume! Don't +you take things for granted! How do you know she will have reason to +be displeased? I never promised you anything! I never told you what I +intended!--Did I ever now?” + +“No, sir. You have already done far more than ever you promised. You +have given me all any man has a right to from his father. I am ready to +go to London at once, and make my own living.” + +“How?” + +“I don't know yet; I should have to choose--thanks to you and my uncle!” + +“In the meantime, you must be introduced to your stepmother.” + +“Then--excuse me, sir Wilton--” interposed the parson, “do you wish me +to regard my old friend Richard as your son and heir?” + +“As my son, yes; as my heir--that will depend--” + +“On his behaviour, I presume!” Wingfold ventured. + +“I say nothing of the sort!” replied the baronet testily. “Would you +have me doubt whether he will carry himself like a gentleman? The thing +depends on my pleasure. There are others besides him.” + +He rose to ring the bell. Richard started up to forestall his intent. + +“Now, Richard,” said his father, turning sharp upon him, “don't be +officious. Nothing shows want of breeding more than to do a thing for a +man in his own house. It is a cursed liberty!” + +“I will try to remember, sir,” answered Richard. + +“Do; we shall get on the better.” + +He was seized, as by the claw of a crab, with a sharp twinge of the +gout. He caught at the back of a chair, hobbled with its help to the +table, and so to his seat. Richard restrained himself and stood rigid. +The baronet turned a half humorous, half reproachful look on him. + +“That's right!” he said. “Never be officious. I wish my father had +taught me as I am teaching you!--Ever had the gout, Mr. Wingfold?” + +“Never, sir Wilton.” + +“Then you ought every Sunday to say, 'Thank God that I have no gout!'” + +“But if we thanked God for all the ills we don't have, there would be no +time to thank him for any of the blessings we do have!” + +“What blessings?” + +“So many, I don't know where to begin to answer you.” + +“Ah, yes! you're a clergyman! I forgot. It's your business to thank God. +For my part, being a layman, I don't know anything in particular I've +got to thank him for.” + +“If I thought a layman had less to thank God for than a clergyman, I +should begin to doubt whether either had anything to thank him for. Why, +sir Wilton, I find everything a blessing! I thank God I am a poor man. +I thank him for every good book I fall in with. I thank him when a child +smiles to me. I thank him when the sun rises or the wind blows on me. +Every day I am so happy, or at least so peaceful, or at the worst so +hopeful, that my very consciousness is a thanksgiving.” + +“Do you thank him for your wife, Mr. Wingfold?” + +“Every day of my existence.” + +The baronet stared at him a moment, then turned to his son. + +“Richard,” he said, “you had better make up your mind to go into the +church! You hear Mr. Wingfold! I shouldn't like it myself; I should have +to be at my prayers all day!” + +“Ah, sir Wilton, it doesn't take time to thank God! It only takes +eternity.” + +Sir Wilton stared. He did not understand. + +“Ring the bell, will you!” he said. “The fellow seems to have gone to +sleep.” + +Richard obeyed, and not a word was spoken until the man appeared. + +“Wilkins,” said his master, “go to my lady, and say I beg the favour of +her presence in the library for a moment.” + +The man went. + +“No antipathy to cats, I hope!” he added, turning to Richard. + +“None, sir,” answered Richard gravely. + +“That's good! Then you won't lie taken aback!” + +In a few minutes--she seldom made her husband wait--lady Ann sailed into +the room, the servant closing the door so deftly behind her, that it +seemed without moving to have given passage to an angelic presence. + +The two younger men rose. + +“Mr. Wingfold you know, my lady!” said her husband. + +“I have not the pleasure,” answered lady Ann, with a slight motion of +the hard bud at the top of her long stalk. + +“Ah, I thought you did!--The Reverend Mr. Wingfold, lady Ann!--My wife, +Mr. Wingfold!--The other gentleman, lady Ann.--” + +He paused. Lady Ann turned her eyes slowly on Richard. Wingfold saw a +slight, just perceptible start, and a settling of the jaws. + +“The other gentleman,” resumed the baronet, “you do not know, but you +will soon be the best of friends.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir Wilton, I do know him!--I hope,” she went on, +turning to Richard, “you will keep steadily to your work. The sooner the +books are finished, the better!” + +Richard smiled, but what he was on the point of saying, his father +prevented. + +“You mistake, my lady! I thought you did not know him!” said the +baronet. “That gentleman is my son, and will one day be sir Richard.” + +“Oh!” returned her ladyship--without a shadow of change in her +impassivity, except Wingfold was right in fancying the slightest +movement of squint in the eye next him. She held out her hand. + +“This is an unexpected--” + +For once in her life her lips were truer than her heart: they did not +say _pleasure_. + +Richard took her hand respectfully, sad for the woman whose winter had +no fuel, and who looked as if she would be cold to all eternity. Lady +Ann stared him in the eyes and said,-- + +“My favourite prayer-book has come to pieces at last: perhaps you would +bind it for me?” + +“I shall be delighted,” answered Richard. + +“Thank you,” she said, bowed to Wingfold, and left the room. + +Sir Wilton sat like an offended turkey-cock, staring after her. “By +Jove!” he seemed to say to himself. + +“There! that's over!” he cried, coming to himself. “Ring the bell, +Richard, and let us have lunch.--Richard, _no_ gentleman could have +behaved better! I am proud of you!--It's blood that does it!” he +murmured to himself. + +As if he had himself compounded both his own blood and his boy's in +the still-room of creation, he took all the credit of Richard's _savoir +faire_, as he counted it. He did not know that the same thing made +Wingfold happy and Richard a gentleman! Richard had had a higher +breeding than was known to sir Wilton. At the court of courts, whence +the manners of some other courts would be swept as dust from the floors, +the baronet would hardly gain admittance! + +Lady Ann went up the stair slowly and perpendicularly, a dull pain at +her heart. The cause was not so much that her son was the second son, as +that the son of the blacksmith's daughter was--she took care to say _at +first sight_--a finer _gentleman_ than her Arthur. Rank and position, +she vaguely reflected, must not look for justice from the jealous +heavens! They always sided with the poor! Just see the party-spirit of +the Psalms! The rich and noble were hardly dealt with! Nowadays even the +church was with the radicals! + +The baronet was merry over his luncheon. The servants wondered at first, +but before the soup was removed, they wondered no more: the young man +at the table, in whom not one of them had recognized the bookbinder, was +the lost heir to Mortgrange! He was worth finding, they agreed--one who +would hold his own! The house would be merrier now--thank heaven! They +liked Mr. Arthur well enough, but here was his master! + +The meal was over, and the baronet always slept after lunch. + +“You'll stay to dinner, won't you, Mr. Wingfold?” he said, rising. +“--Richard, ring the bell. Better send for Mrs. Locke at once, and +arrange with her where you will sleep.” + +“Then I may choose my own room, sir?” rejoined Richard. + +“Of course--but better not too near my lady's,” answered his father with +a grim smile as he hobbled from the room. + +When the housekeeper came-- + +“Mrs. Locke,” said Richard, “I want to see the room that used to be the +nursery--in the older time, I mean.” + +“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Locke pleasantly, and led them up two flights +of stairs and along corridor and passage to the room Richard had before +occupied. He glanced round it, and said, + +“This shall be my room. Will you kindly get it ready for me.” + +She hesitated. It had certainly not been repapered, as sir Wilton +thought, and had said to Mrs. Tuke! To Mrs. Locke it seemed +uninhabitable by a gentleman. + +“I will send for the painter and paper-hanger at once,” she replied, +“but it will take more than a week to get ready.” + +“Pray leave it as it is,” he answered. “--You can have the floor swept +of course,” he added with a smile, seeing her look of dismay. “I will +sleep here to-night, and we can settle afterward what is to be done +to it.--There used to be a portrait,” he went on, “--over the +chimney-piece, the portrait of a lady--not well painted, I fancy, but I +liked it: what has become of it?” + +Then first it began to dawn on Mrs. Locke that the young man who mended +the books and the heir to Mortgrange were the same person. + +“It fell down one day, and has not been put up agin,” she answered. + +“Do you know where it is?” + +“I will find it, sir.” + +“Do, if you please. Whose portrait is it?” + +“The last lady Lestrange's, sir.--But bless my stupid old head! it's his +own mother's picture he's asking for! You'll pardon me, sir! The thing's +more bewildering than you'd think!--I'll go and get it at once.” + +“Thank you. Mr. Wingfold and I will wait till you bring it.” + +“There ain't anywhere for you to sit, sir!” lamented the old lady. “If +I'd only known! I'm sure, sir, I wish you joy!” + +“Thank you, Mrs. Locke. We'll sit here on the mattress.” + +Richard had not forgotten how the eyes of the picture used to draw his, +and he had often since wondered whether it could be the portrait of his +mother. + +In a few minutes Mrs. Locke reappeared, carrying the portrait, which had +never been put in a frame, and knotting the cord, Richard hung it again +on the old nail. It showed a well-formed face, but was very flat and +wooden. The eyes, however, were comparatively well painted; and it +seemed to Richard that he could read both sorrow and disappointment in +them, with a yearning after something she could not have. + +They went out for a ramble in the park, and there Richard told his +friend as much as he knew of his story, describing as well as he +understood them the changes that had passed upon him in the matter of +religion, and making no secret of what he owed to the expostulations +and spiritual resistances of Barbara. Wingfold, after listening with +profound attention, told him he had passed through an experience in +many points like, and at the root the same as his own; adding that, long +before he was sure of anything, it had become more than possible for +him to keep going on; and that still he was but looking and hoping and +waiting for a fuller dawn of what had made his being already blessed. + +They consulted whether Wingfold should act on the baronet's careless +invitation, and concluded it better he should not stay to dinner. Then, +as there was yet time, and it was partly on Wingfold's way, they set out +for the smithy. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. _WINGFOLD AND ARTHUR MANSON_. + +When the first delight of their meeting was abated, Simon sent to let +Arthur Manson know that his brother was there. For Arthur had all this +time been with Simon, to whom Richard, saving enough from his allowance, +had prevented him from being a burden. + +He looked much better, and was enchanted to see his brother again, and +learn the good news of his recognition by his father. “I'm so glad it's +you and not me, Richard!” he said. “It makes me feel quite safe and +happy. We shall have nothing now but fair play all round, the rest of +our lives! How happy Alice will be!” + +“Is Alice still in the old place? I haven't heard of her for some time,” + said Richard. + +“Don't you know?” exclaimed Arthur. “She's been at the parsonage for +months and months! Mrs. Wingfold went and fetched her away, to work for +her, and be near me. She's as happy now as the day is long. She says +if everybody was as good as her master and mistress, there would be no +misery left in the world.” + +“I don't doubt it,” answered Richard. “--But I've just parted with Mr. +Wingfold, and he didn't say a word about her!” + +“When anything has to be done, Mr. Wingfold never forgets it,” said +Arthur; “but I should just like to hear all the things Mr. Wingfold did +and forgot in a month!” + +“Arthur's getting on.” thought Richard. + +But he had to learn how much Wingfold had done for him. First of all he +had set himself, by talking to him and lending him books, to find out +his bent, or at least something he was capable of. But for months he +could not wake him enough to know anything of what was in him: the +poor fellow was weary almost to death. At last, however, he got him to +observe a little. Then he began to set him certain tasks; and as he +was an invalid, the first was what he called “The task of twelve +o'clock;”--which was, for a quarter of an hour from every noon during a +month, to write down what he then saw going on in the world. + +The first day he had nothing to show: he had seen nothing! + +“What were the clouds doing?” Mr. Wingfold asked. “What were the horses +in the fields doing?--What were the birds you saw doing?--What were the +ducks and hens doing?--Put down whatever you see any creature about.” + +The next evening, he went to him again, and asked him for his paper. +Arthur handed him a folded sheet. + +“Now,” said Mr. Wingfold, “I am not going to look at this for the +present. I am going to lay it in one of my drawers, and you must write +another for me to-morrow. If you are able, bring it over to me; if not, +lay it by, and do not look at it, but write another, and another--one +every day, and give them all to me the next time I come, which will +be soon. We shall go on that way for a month, and then we shall see +something!” + +At the end of the month, Mr. Wingfold took all the papers, and fastened +them together in their proper order. Then they read them together, and +did indeed see something! The growth of Arthur's observation both in +extent and quality, also the growth of his faculty for narrating what he +saw, were remarkable both to himself and his instructor. The number of +things and circumstances he was able to see by the end of the month, +compared with the number he had seen in the beginning of it, was +wonderful; while the mode of his record had changed from that of a child +to that almost of a man. + +Mr. Wingfold next, as by that time the weather was quite warm, set him +“The task of six o'clock in the evening,” when the things that presented +themselves to his notice would be very different. After a fortnight, he +changed again the hour of his observation, and went on changing it. +So that at length the youth who had, twice every day, walked along +Cheapside almost without seeing that one face differed from another, +knew most of the birds and many of the insects, and could in general +tell what they were about, while the domestic animals were his familiar +friends. He delighted in the grass and the wild flowers, the sky and the +clouds and the stars, and knew, after a real, vital fashion, the world +in which he lived. He entered into the life that was going on about him, +and so in the house of God became one of the family. He had ten times +his former consciousness; his life was ten times the size it was before. +As was natural, his health had improved marvellously. There is nothing +like interest in life to quicken the vital forces--the secret of which +is, that they are left freer to work. + +Richard was rejoiced with the change in him, and reckoned of what he +might learn from Arthur in the long days before them; while he in turn +would tell him many things he would now be prepared to hear. The soul +that had seemed rapidly sinking into the joyless dark, was now burning +clear as a torch of heaven. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. _RICHARD AND HIS FAMILY_. + +As the dinner-hour drew nigh, Richard went to the drawing-room, +scrupulously dressed. Lady Ann gave him the coldest of polite +recognitions; Theodora was full of a gladness hard to keep within the +bounds which fear of her mother counselled; Victoria was scornful, and +as impudent as she dared be in the presence of her father; Miss Malliver +was utterly wooden, and behaved as if she had never seen him before; +Arthur was polite and superior. Things went pretty well, however. +Percy, happily, was at Woolwich, pretending to study engineering: of him +Richard had learned too much at Oxford. + +Theodora and Richard were at once drawn to each other--he prejudiced in +her favour by Barbara, she proud of her new, handsome brother. She was +a plain, good-natured, good-tempered girl--with red hair, which only her +father and mother disliked, and a modest, freckled face, whose smile was +genuine and faith-inspiring. Her mother counted her stupid, accepting +the judgment of the varnished governess, who saw wonder or beauty or +value in nothing her eyes or hands could not reach. Theodora was indeed +one of those who, for lack of true teaching, or from the deliberateness +of nature, continue children longer than most, but she was not therefore +stupid. The aloe takes seven years to blossom, but when it does, its +flower may be thirty feet long. Where there is love, there is intellect: +at what period it may show itself, matters little. Richard felt he had +in her another sister--one for whom he might do something. He talked +freely, as became him at his father's table, and the conversation did +not quite flag. If lady Ann said next to nothing, she said nearly as +much as usual, and was perfectly civil; Arthur was sullen but not rude; +Theodora's joy made her talk as she had never talked before. A morn of +romance had dawned upon her commonplace life. Vixen gave herself to her +dinner, and but the shadow of a grimace now and then reminded Richard of +the old monkey-phiz. + +Having the heart of a poet, the brain of a scientist, and the hands of a +workman--hands, that is, made for making, Richard talked so vitally that +in most families not one but all would have been interested; and indeed +Arthur too would have enjoyed listening, but that he was otherwise +occupied. That he had to look unconcerned at his own deposition, while +regarding as an intruder the man whose place he had so long in a sense +usurped, was not his sorest trial: regarding as a prig the man who +talked about things worth talking about, he could not help feeling +himself a poor creature, an empty sack, beside the son of the low-born +woman. But indeed Richard, brought face to face with life, and taught to +meet necessity with labour, had had immeasurable advantages over Arthur. + +The younger insisted to himself that his brother could not have the +feelings of a gentleman; that he must have poverty-stricken ways of +looking at things. He could, it was true, find nothing in his manners, +carriage, or speech, unlike a gentleman, but the vulgarity must be +there, and he watched to find it. For he was not himself a gentleman +yet. + +When they went to the drawing-room, and Richard had sung a ballad so as +almost to make lady Ann drop a scale or two from her fish-eyes, Arthur +went out of the room stung with envy, and not ashamed of it. The +thing most alien to the true idea of humanity, is the notion that +our well-being lies in surpassing our fellows. We have to rise above +ourselves, not above our neighbours; to take all the good _of_ them, not +_from_ them, and give them all our good in return. That which cannot be +freely shared, can never be possessed. Arthur went to his room with a +gnawing at his heart. Not merely must he knock under to the foundling, +but confess that the foundling could do most things better than he--was +out of sight his superior in accomplishment as well as education.--“But +let us see how he rides and shoots!” he thought. + +Even Vixen, who had been saying to herself all the time of dinner, “Mean +fellow! to come like a fox and steal poor Arthur's property!”--even +she was cowed a little by his singing, and felt for the moment in the +presence of her superior. + +Sir Wilton was delighted. Here was a son to represent him!--the son of +the woman the county had declined to acknowledge! What was lady Ann's +plebeian litter beside this high-bred, modest, self-possessed fellow! He +was worthy of his father, by Jove! + +He went early to bed, and Richard was not sorry. He too retired early, +leaving the rest to talk him over. + +How they did it, I do not care to put on record. Theodora said little, +for her heart had come awake with a new and lovely sense of gladness and +hope. + +“If he would but fall in love with Barbara Wylder!” she thought; “--or +rather if Barbara would but fall in love with him, for nobody can help +falling in love with her, how happy I should be! they are the two I love +best in the world!--next to papa and mamma, of course!” she added, being +a loyal girl. + +The next morning, Richard came upon Arthur shooting at a mark, and both +with pistols and rifle beat him thoroughly. But when Arthur began to +talk about shooting pheasants, he found in Richard a rooted dislike to +killing. This moved Arthur's contempt. + +“Keep it dark,” he said; “you'll be laughed at if you don't. My father +won't like it.” + +“Why must a man enjoy himself at the expense of joy?” answered Richard. +“I pass no judgment upon your sport. I merely say I don't choose to kill +birds. What men may think of me for it, is a matter of indifference to +me. I think of them much as they think of a Frenchman or an Italian, who +shoots larks and blackbirds and thrushes and nightingales: I don't see +the great difference!” + +They strolled into the stable. There stood Miss Brown, looking over the +door of her box. She received Richard with glad recognition. + +“How comes Miss Brown here?” he asked. “Where can her mistress be?” + +“The mare's at home,” answered Arthur. “I bought her.” + +“Oh!” said Richard, and going into the box, lifted her foot and looked +at the shoe. Alas, Miss Brown had worn out many shoes since Barbara +drove a nail in her hoof! Had there been one of hers there, he would +have known it--by a pretty peculiarity in the turn of the point back +into the hoof which she called her mark. The mare sniffed about his head +in friendly fashion. + +“She smells the smithy!” said Arthur to himself.--“Yes; your +grandfather's work.” he remarked. “I should be sorry to see any other +man shoe horse of mine!” + +“So should I!” answered Richard. “--I wonder why Miss Wylder sold Miss +Brown!” he said, after a pause. + +“I am not so curious!” rejoined Arthur. “She sold her, and I bought +her.” + +Neither divined that the animal stood there a sacrifice to Barbara's +love of Richard. + +Arthur had given up hope of winning Barbara, but the thought that the +bookbinder-fellow might now, as he vulgarly phrased it to himself, go in +and win, swelled his heart with a yet fiercer jealousy. “I hate him,” he +said in his heart. Yet Arthur was not a bad fellow as fellows go. He +was only a man for himself, believing every man must be for himself, and +count the man in his way his enemy. He was just a man who had not begun +to stop being a devil. + +At breakfast lady Ann was almost attentive to her stepson. As it +happened they were left alone at the table. Suddenly she addressed him. + +“Richard, I have one request to make of you,” she said; “I hope you will +grant it me!” + +“I will if I can,” he answered; “but I must not promise without knowing +what it is.” + +“You do not feel bound to please me, I know! I have the misfortune not +to be your mother!” + +“I feel bound to please you where I can, and shall be more than glad to +do so.” + +“It is a small thing I am going to ask. I should not have thought of +mentioning it, but for the terms you seem upon with Mr. Wingfold.” + +“I hope to see him within an hour or so.” + +“I thought as much!--Do you happen to remember a small person who came a +good deal about the house when you were at work here?” + +“If your ladyship means Miss Wylder, I remember her perfectly.” + +“It is necessary to let you know, and then I shall leave the matter +to your good sense, that Mrs. Wylder, and indeed the girl herself at +various times, has behaved to me with such rudeness, that you cannot in +ordinary decency have acquaintance with them. I mention it in case Mr. +Wingfold should want to take you to see them. They are parishioners of +his.” + +“I am sorry I must disappoint you,” said Richard. Lady Ann rose with a +grey glitter in her eyes. + +“Am I to understand you _intend_ calling on the Wylders?” she said. + +“I have imperative reasons for calling upon them this very morning,” + answered Richard. + +“I am sorry you should so immediately show your antagonism!” said lady +Ann. + +“My obligations to Miss Wylder are such that I must see her the first +possible moment.” + +“Have you asked your father's permission?” + +“I have not,” answered Richard, and left the room hurriedly. + +The next moment he was out of the house: lady Ann might go to his +father, and he would gladly avoid the necessity of disobeying him +the first morning after his return! He did not know how small was her +influence with her husband. + +He took the path across the fields, and ran until he was out of sight of +Mortgrange. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. _HEART TO HEART_. + +When he came to the parsonage, which he had to pass on his way to the +Hall, he saw Mr. Wingfold through the open window of the drawing-room, +and turned to the door. The parson met him on the threshold. + +“Welcome!” he said. “How did you get through your dinner?” + +“Better than I expected,” replied Richard. “But this morning my +stepmother began feeling my mouth: she would have me promise not to call +on the Wylders. They had been rude to her, she said.” + +“Come into the drawing-room. A friend of mine is there who will be glad +to see you.” + +The drawing-room of the parsonage was low and dark, with its two windows +close together on the same side. At the farther end stood a lady, +seemingly occupied with an engraving on the wall. She did not move when +they entered. Wingfold led Richard up to her, then turned without a +word, and left the room. Before either knew, they were each in the +other's arms. + +Barbara was sobbing. Richard thought he had dared too much and had +frightened her. + +“I couldn't help it!” Barbara said pleadingly. + +“My life has been a longing for you!” said Richard. + +“I have wanted you every day!” said Barbara, and began again to sob, but +recovered herself with an effort. + +“This will never do!” she cried, laughing through her tears. “I shall go +crazy with having you! And I've not seen you yet! Let me go, please. I +want to look at you!” + +Richard released her. She lifted a blushing, tearful face to his. But +there was only joy, no pain in her tears; only delight, no shame in her +blushes. One glance at the simple, manly face before her, so full of the +trust that induces trust, would have satisfied any true woman that she +was as safe in his thoughts as in those of her mother. She gazed at him +one long silent moment. + +“How splendid you are!” she cried, like a wild schoolgirl. “How good of +you to grow like that! I wish I could see you on Miss Brown!--What are +you going to do, Richard?” + +While she spoke, Richard was pasturing his eyes, the two mouths of his +soul, on the heavenly meadow of her face; and she for very necessity +went on talking, that she might not cry again. + +“Are you going back to the bookbinding?” she said. + +“I do not know. Sir Wilton--my father hasn't told me yet what he wants +me to do.--Wasn't it good of him to send me to Oxford?” + +“You've been at Oxford then all this time?--I suppose he will make +an officer of you now!--Not that I care! I am content with whatever +contents you!” + +“I dare say he will hardly like me to live by my hands!” answered +Richard, laughing. “He would count it a degradation! There I shall never +be able to think like a gentleman!” + +Barbara looked perplexed. + +“You don't mean to say he's going to treat you just like one of the +rest” she exclaimed. + +“I really do not know,” answered Richard; “but I think he would hardly +enjoy the thought of _Sir Richard Lestrange_ over a bookbinder's shop in +Hammersmith or Brentford!” + +“Sir Richard! You do not mean--?” + +Her face grew white; her eyes fell; her hand trembled on Richard's arm. + +“What is troubling you, dearest?” he asked, in his turn perplexed. + +“I can't understand it.” she answered. + +“Is it possible you do not know, Barbara?” he returned. “I thought Mr. +Wingfold must have told you!--Sir Wilton says I am his son that was +lost. Indeed there is no doubt of it.” + +“Richard! Richard! believe me I didn't know. Lady Ann told me you were +not--” + +“How then should I have dared put my arms round you, Barbara?” + +“Richard, I care nothing for what the world thinks! I care only for what +God thinks.” + +“Then, Barbara, you would have married me, believing me base born?” + +“Oh Richard! you thought it was knowing who you were that made me--! +Richard! Richard! I did not think you could have wronged me so! My +father sold Miss Brown because I would not marry your brother and be +lady Lestrange. If you had not asked me, and I had been sure it was +only because of your birth you wouldn't, I should have found some way of +letting you know I cared no more for that than God himself does. The +god of the world is the devil. He has many names, but he's all the same +devil, as Mr. Wingfold says.--I wonder why he never told me!--I'm glad +he didn't. If he had, I shouldn't be here now!” + +“I am very glad too, Barbara; but it wouldn't have made so much +difference: I was only here on my way to you! But suppose it had been +as you thought, it was one thing what you would do, and another what I +would ask you to do!” + +“What I would have done was what you should have believed I would do!” + +“You must just pardon me, Barbara: well as I thought I knew you, I did +not know you enough!” + +“You do now?” + +'“I do.” + +There came a silence. + +“How long have you known this about yourself, Richard?” said Barbara. + +“More than four years.” + +“And you never told me!” + +“My father wished it kept a secret for a time.” + +“Did Mr. Wingfold know?” + +“Not till yesterday.” + +“Why didn't he tell me yesterday, then?” + +“I think he wouldn't have told you if he had known all the time.” + +“Why?” + +“For the same reason that made him leave us together so suddenly--that +you might not be hampered by knowing it--that we might understand each +other before you knew. I see it all now! It was just like him!” + +“Oh, he is a friend!” cried Barbara. “He knows what one is, and so knows +what one is thinking!” + +A silent embrace followed, and then Barbara said, “You must come and see +my mother!” + +“Hadn't you better tell her first?” suggested Richard. + +“She knows--knows what you didn't know--what I've been thinking all the +time,” rejoined Barbara, with a rosy look of confidence into his eyes. + +“She can never have been willing you should marry a tradesman--and one, +besides, who--!” + +“She knew I would--and that I should have money, else she might not have +been willing. I don't say she likes the idea, but she is determined I +shall have the man I love--if he will have me,” she added shyly. + +“Did you tell her you--cared for me?” + +He could not say loved yet; he felt an earthy pebble beside a celestial +sapphire! + +“Of course I did, when papa wanted me to have Arthur!--not till then; +there was no occasion! I could not tell what your thoughts were, but my +own were enough for that.” + +Mrs. Wylder was taken with Richard the moment she saw him; and when she +heard his story, she was overjoyed, and would scarcely listen to a word +about the uncertainty of his prospects. That her Bab should marry the +man she loved, and that the alliance should be what the world counted +respectable, was enough for her. When Richard told his father what +he had done, saying they had fallen in love with each other while yet +ignorant of his parentage, a glow of more than satisfaction warmed sir +Wilton's consciousness. It was lovely! Lady Ann was being fooled on all +sides! + +“Richard has been making good use of his morning!” he said at dinner. +“He has already proposed to Miss Wylder and been accepted! Richard is a +man of action--a practical fellow!” + +Lady Ann did perhaps turn a shade paler, but she smiled. It was not such +a blow as it might have been, for she too had given up hope of securing +her for Arthur. But it was not pleasant to her that the grandchild of +the blacksmith should have Barbara's money. Theodora was puzzled. + + + + +CHAPTER LXII. _THE QUARREL_. + +For a few weeks, things went smoothly enough. Not a jar occurred in the +feeble harmony, not a questionable cloud appeared above the horizon. The +home-weather seemed to have grown settled. Lady Ann was not unfriendly. +Richard, having provided himself with tools for the purpose, bound +her prayer-book in violet velvet, with her arms cut out in gold on the +cover; and she had not seemed altogether ungrateful. Arthur showed no +active hostility, made indeed some little fight with himself to behave +as a brother ought to a brother he would rather not have found. Far from +inseparable, they were yet to be seen together about the place. Vixen +had not once made a face to his face; I will not say she had made none +at his back. Theodora and he were fast friends. Miss Malliver, now a +sort of upper slave to lady Ann, cringed to him. + +Arthur readily sold him Miss Brown, and every day she carried him to +Barbara. But he took the advice of Wingfold, and was not long from home +any day, but much at hand to his father's call, who had many things for +him to do, and was rejoiced to find him, unlike Arthur, both able and +ready. He would even send him where a domestic might have done as +well; but Richard went with hearty good will. It gladdened him to be of +service to the old man. Then a rumour reached his father's ears, carried +to lady Ann by her elderly maid, that Richard had been seen in low +company; and he was not long in suspecting the truth of the matter. + +Not once before since Richard's return, had sir Wilton given the Mansons +a thought, never doubting his son's residence at Oxford must have cured +him of a merely accidental inclination to such low company, and made +evident to him that recognition of such relationship as his to them +was an unheard-of impropriety, a sin against social order, a +class-treachery. + +Almost every day Richard went to Wylder Hall, he had a few minutes with +Alice at the parsonage. Neither Barbara nor her lawless, great-hearted +mother, would have been pleased to have it otherwise. Barbara treated +Alice as a sister, and so did Helen Wingfold, who held that such service +as hers must be recompensed with love, and the money thrown in. Their +kindness, with her new peace of heart, and plenty of food and fresh air, +had made her strong and almost beautiful. + +It was Richard's custom to ride over in the morning, but one day it was +more convenient for him to go in the evening, and that same evening it +happened that Arthur Manson had gone to see his sister. When Richard, on +his way back from the Hall, found him at the parsonage, he proposed to +see him home: Miss Brown was a good walker, and if Arthur did not choose +to ride all the way, they would ride and walk alternately. Arthur was +delighted, and they set out in the dusk on foot, Alice going a little +way with them. Richard led Miss Brown, and Alice clung joyously to his +arm: but for Richard, she would not have known that human being ever was +or could be so happy! The western sky was a smoky red; the stars were +coming out; the wind was mild, and seemed to fill her soul with life +from the fountain of life, from God himself. For Alice had been learning +from Barbara--not to think things, but to feel realities, the reality of +real things--to see truths themselves. Often, when Mrs. Wingfold could +spare her, Barbara would take her out for a walk. Then sometimes as +they walked she would quite forget her presence, and through that very +forgetting, Alice learned much. When first she saw Barbara lost in +silent joy, and could see nothing to make her look glad, she wondered a +moment, then swiftly concluded she must be thinking of God. When she saw +her spread out her arms as if to embrace the wind that flowed to meet +them, then too she wondered, but presently began to feel what a thing +the wind was--how full of something strange and sweet. She began to +learn that nothing is dead, that there cannot be a physical abstraction, +that nothing exists for the sake of the laws of its phenomena. She did +not put it so to herself, I need hardly say; but she was, in a word, +learning to feel that the world was alive. Of the three she was the +merriest that night as they went together along the quiet road. A little +way out of the village, Richard set her on the mare, and walked by her +side, leading Miss Brown. Such was the tolerably sufficient foundation +for the report that he was seen rollicking with a common-looking lad +and a servant girl on the high road, in the immediate vicinity of Wylder +Hall. + +“He is his father's son!” reflected lady Ann. + +“He's a chip of the old block!” said sir Wilton to himself. But he did +not approve of the openness of the thing. To let such doings be seen was +low! Presently fell an ugly light on the affair. + +“By Jove!” he said to himself, “it's the damned Manson girl! I'll lay +my life on it! The fellow is too much of a puritan to flaunt his own +foibles in the public eye; but, damn him, he don't love his father +enough not to flaunt his! Dead and buried, the rascal hauls them out +of their graves for men to see! It's all the damned socialism of his +mother's relations! Otherwise the fellow would be all a father could +wish! I might have known it! The Armour blood was sure to break out! +What business has he with what his father did before he was born! He was +nowhere then, the insolent dog! He shall do as I tell him or go about +his business--go and herd with the Mansons and all the rest of them if +he likes, and be hanged to them!” + +He sat in smouldering rage for a while, and then again his thoughts took +shape in words, though not in speech. + +“How those fools of Wylders will squirm when I cut the rascal off with +a shilling, and settle the property on the man the little lady refused! +But Dick will never be such a fool! He cannot reconcile his puritanism +with such brazen-faced conduct! I shall never make a gentleman of him! +He will revert to the original type! It had disappeared in his mother! +What's bred in the damned bone will never out of the damned flesh!” + +Richard was at the moment walking with Mr. Wingfold in the rectory +garden. They were speaking of what the Lord meant when he said a man +must leave all for him. As soon us he entered his father's room, he saw +that something had gone wrong with him. + +“What is it, father?” he said. + +“Richard, sit down,” said sir Wilton. “I must have a word with +you:--What young man and woman were you walking with two nights ago, not +far from Wylder Hall?” + +“My brother and sister, sir--the Mansons.” + +“My God, I thought as much!” cried the baronet, and started to his +feet--but sat down again: the fetter of his gout pulled him back. “Hold +up your right hand,” he went on--sir Wilton was a magistrate--“and swear +by God that you will never more in your life speak one word to either of +those--persons, or leave my house at once.” + +“Father,” said Richard, his voice trembling a little, “I cannot obey +you. To deny my friends and relations, even at your command, would be to +forsake my Master. It would be to break the bonds that bind men, God's +children, together.” + +“Hold your cursed jargon! Bonds indeed! Is there no bond between you and +your father!” + +“Believe me, father, I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. I dare +not obey you. You have been very kind to me, and I thank you from my +heart,--” + +“Shut up, you young hypocrite! you have tongue enough for three!--Come, +I will give you one chance more! Drop those persons you call your +brother and sister, or I drop you.” + +“You must drop me, then, father!” said Richard with a sigh. + +“Will you do as I tell you?” + +“No, sir. I dare not.” + +“Then leave the house.” + +Richard rose. + +“Good-bye, sir,” he said. + +“Get out of the house.” + +“May I not take my tools, sir?” + +“What tools, damn you!” + +“I got some to bind lady Ann's prayer-book.” + +“She's taken him in! By Jove, she's done him, the fool! She's been +keeping him up to it, to enrage me and get rid of him!” said the baronet +to himself. + +“What do you want them for?” he asked, a little calmer. + +“To work at my trade. If you turn me out, I must go back to that.” + +“Damn your soul! it never was, and never will be anything but a +tradesman's! Damn _my_ soul, if I wouldn't rather make young Manson my +heir than you!--No, by Jove, you shall _not_ have your damned tools! +Leave the house. You cannot claim a chair-leg in it!” + +Richard bowed, and went; got his hat and stick; and walked from the +house with about thirty shillings in his pocket. His heart was like a +lump of lead, but he was nowise dismayed. He was in no perplexity how to +live. Happy the man who knows his hands the gift of God, the providers +for his body! I would in especial that teachers of righteousness were +able, with St. Paul, to live by their hands! Outside the lodge-gate he +paused, and stood in the middle of the road thinking. Thus far he had +seen his way, but no farther. To which hand must he turn? Should he go +to his grandfather, or to Barbara? + +He set out, plodding across the fields, for Wylder Hall. There was no +Miss Brown for him now. Miss Wylder, they told him, was in the garden. +She sat in a summer-house, reading a story. When she heard his step, she +knew, from the very sound of it, that he was discomposed. Never was such +a creature for interpreting the signs of the unseen! Her senses were as +discriminating as those of wild animals that have not only to find life +but to avoid death by the keenness of their wits. She came out, and met +him in the dim green air under a wide-spreading yew. + +“What is the matter, Richard?” she said, looking in his face with +anxiety. “What has gone wrong?” + +“My father has turned me out.” + +“Turned you out?” + +“Yes. I must swear never to speak another word to Alice or Arthur, or go +about my business. I went.” + +“Of course you did!” cried Barbara, lifting her dainty chin an inch +higher. + +Then, after a little pause, in which she looked with loving pride +straight into his eyes--for was he not a man after her own brave big +heart!--she resumed: + +“Well, it is no worse for you than before, and ever so much better for +me!--What are you going to do, Richard?--There are so many things you +could turn to now!” + +“Yes, but only one I can do well. I might get fellows to coach, but I +should have to wait too long--and then I should have to teach what +I thought worth neither the time nor the pay. I prefer to live by my +hands, and earn leisure for something else.” + +“I like that,” said Barbara. “Will it take you long to get into the way +of your old work?” + +“I don't think it will,” answered Richard; “and I believe I shall do +better at it now. I was looking at some of it yesterday morning, and was +surprised I should have been pleased with it. In myself growing, I have +grown to demand better work--better both in idea and execution.” + +“It is horrid to have you go,” said Barbara; “but I will think you up to +God every day, and dream about you every night, and read about you every +book. I will write to you, and you will write to me--and--and”--she was +on the point of crying, but would not--“and then the old smell of the +leather and the paste will be so nice!” + +She broke into a merry laugh, and the crisis was over. They walked +together to the smithy. Fierce was the wrath of the blacksmith. But for +the presence of Barbara, he would have called his son-in-law ugly names. +His anger soon subsided, however, and he laughed at himself for spending +indignation on such a man. + +“I might have known him by this time!” he said. “--But just let him come +near the smithy!” he resumed, and his eyes began to flame again. “He +shall know, if he does, what a blacksmith thinks of a baronet!--What are +you going to do, my son?” + +“Go back to my work.” + +“Never to that old-wife-trade?” cried the blacksmith. “Look here, +Richard!” he said, and bared his upper arm, “there's what the anvil +does!” Then he bent his shoulders, and began to wheeze. “And there's +what the bookbinding does!” he continued. “No, no; you turn in with me, +and we'll show them a sight!--a gentleman that can make his living +with his own hands! The country shall see sir Wilton Lestrange's heir +a blacksmith because he wouldn't be a snob and deny his own flesh +and blood!--'I saw your son to-day, sir Wilton--at the anvil with his +grandfather! What a fine fellow he do be! Lord, how he do make the +sparks fly!'--If I had him, the old sinner, he should see sparks that +came from somewhere else than the anvil!--You turn in with me, Richard, +and do work fit for a man!” + +“Grandfather,” answered Richard, “I couldn't do your work so well as my +own.” + +“Yes, you could. In six weeks you'll be a better smith than ever you'd +be a bookbinder. There's no good or bad in that sort of soft thing! I'll +make you a better blacksmith than myself. There! I can't say fairer!” + +“But don't you think it better not to irritate my father more than I +must? I oughtn't to torment him. As long as I was here he would fancy me +braving him. When I am out of sight, he may think of me again and want +to see me--as Job said his maker would.” + +“I don't remember,” said Barbara. “Tell me.” + +“He says to God--I was reading it the other day--'I wish you would hide +me in the grave till you've done being angry with me! Then you would +want to see again the creature you had made; you would call me, and I +would answer!' God's not like that, of course, but my father might be. +There is more chance of his getting over it, if I don't trouble him with +sight or sound of me.” + +“Well, perhaps you're right!” said Simon. “Off with you to your woman's +work! and God bless you!” + + + + +CHAPTER LXIII. _BARONET AND BLACKSMITH_. + +Richard took Barbara home, and the same night started for London. +Barbara prayed him to take what money she had, but he said that by going +in the third class he would have something over, and, once there, would +begin to earn money immediately. + +His aunt was almost beside herself for lack of outlet to her surprise +and delight at seeing him. When she heard his story, however, it was +plain she took part with his father, though she was too glad to have her +boy again to say so. His uncle too was sincerely glad. His work had not +been the same thing to him since Richard went; and to have him again was +what he had never hoped. He could not help a grudge that Richard should +lose his position for the sake of such as the Mansons, but he saw now +the principle involved. He saw too that, in virtue of his belief in +God as the father of all, his nephew had much the stronger sense of the +claim of man upon man. + +Richard never disputed with his uncle; he but suggested, and kept +suggesting--in the firm belief that an honest mind must, sooner or +later, open its doors to every truth. He settled to his work as if he +had never been away from it, and in a fortnight or so could work faster +and better than before. Soon he had as much in his peculiar department +as he was able to do, for almost all his old employers again sought him. +His story being now no secret, they wondered he should return to his +trade, but no one thought he had chosen to be a workman because he was +not a gentleman. + +But how changed was the world to him since the time that looked so far +away! With how much larger a life in his heart would he now sit in the +orchestra while the gracious forms of music filled the hall, and he +seemed to see them soaring on the pinions of the birds of God, as Dante +calls the angels, or sweeping level in dance divine, like the six-winged +serpents of Isaiah's vision high and lifted up--all the interspaces +filled with glow-worms and little spangled snakes of coruscating sound! +He was more blessed now than even when but to lift his eyes was to see +the face of Barbara; she was in his faith and hope now as well as in his +love. He had the loveliest of letters from her. She insisted he should +not write oftener than once for her twice: his time was worth more, +she said, than twice hers. Mr. Wingfold wrote occasionally, and Richard +always answered within a week. + +As soon as his son was gone, sir Wilton began to miss him. He wished, +first, that the obstinacy of the rascal had not made it necessary to +give him quite so sharp a lesson; he wished, next, that he had given him +time to see the reasonableness of his demand; and at length, as the days +and weeks passed, and not a whisper of prayer entered the ears of the +family-Baal, he began to wish that he had not sent him away. The desire +to see him grew a longing; his need of him became imperative. Arthur, +who now tried a little to do the work he had before declined, was +the poorest substitute for Richard; and his father kept thinking how +differently Richard had served him. He repented at last as much as was +possible to him, and wished he had left the rascal to take his own way. +He tried to understand how it was that, anxious always to please him, +he yet would not in such a trifle, and that with nothing to gain and +everything to lose by his obstinacy. There might be conscience in it! +his mother certainly had a conscience! But how could the fool make the +Mansons a matter of _his_ conscience? They were no business of his! + +He pretended to himself that he had been born without a conscience. At +the same time he knew very well there were pigeon-holes in his memory he +preferred not searching in; knew very well he had done things which were +wrong, things he knew to be wrong when he did them. If he had ever done +a thing because he ought to do it; if he had ever abstained from doing +a thing because he ought not to do it, he would have _known_ he had +a conscience. Because he did not obey his conscience, he would rather +believe himself without one. I doubt if consciousness ever exists +without conscience, however poorly either may be developed. + +Fur the first time in his life he was possessed with a good +longing--namely, for his son; a fulcrum was at length established +which might support leverage for his uplifting. He grew visibly greyer, +stooped more, and became very irritable. Twenty times a day he would be +on the point of sending for Richard, but twenty times a day his pride +checked him. + +“If the rascal would make but apology enough to satisfy a Frenchman, I +would take him back!” he would say to himself over and over; “but he's +such a chip of the old block!--so damned independent!--Well, I don't +call it a great fault! If I had had a trade, I should have been just as +independent of my father! No, I want no apology from him! Let him just +say, 'Mayn't I come back, father?' and the gold ring and the wedding +garment shall be out for him directly!” + +A month after Richard's expulsion, the baronet drove to the smithy, and +accused Simon of causing all the mischief. He must send the boy Manson +away, he said: he would settle an annuity on the beggar. That done, +Richard must make a suitable apology, and he would take him back. Simon +listened without a word. He wanted to see how far he would go. + +“If you will not oblige me,” he ended, “you shall not have another +stroke of work from Mortgrange, and I will use my influence to drive you +from the county.” + +Without waiting for an answer, he turned to walk from the shop. But he +did not walk. The moment he turned, Simon took him by the shoulders and +ran him right out of the smithy up to his carriage, into which, for the +footman had made haste to open the door, he would have tumbled him neck +and heels, but that, gout and all, sir Wilton managed to spring on the +step, and get in without falling. In a rage by no means unnatural, he +called to the coachman to send his lash about the ruffian's ears. Simon +burst into a guffaw, which so startled the horses that the footman had +to run to their heads. In his haste to do so, he failed to shut the +door properly; it opened and banged, swinging this way and that, as the +horses now reared, now backed, now pulled, and the baronet, cursing and +swearing, was tossed about in his carriage like a dried-up kernel in +a nut. Simon at length, with tears of merriment running down his red +cheeks, managed, in a succession of gymnastics, to close the door. + +“Home, Peterkin?” he shouted, and turning away, strode back to his +forge, whence immediately sprang upon the air the merriest tune ever +played by anvil and hammer with a horse-shoe between them--the sparks +flying about the musician like a nimbus of embodied notes. It seemed to +soothe the horses, for they started immediately without further racket. +Before the next month was over, the baronet was again in the smithy--in +a better mood this time. He made no reference to his former ignominious +dismissal--wanted only to know if Simon had heard from his grandson. The +old man answered that he had: he was well, happy, and busy. Sir Wilton +gave a grunt. + +“Why didn't he stay and help you?” + +“I begged him to do so,” answered Simon, “for he is almost as good at +the anvil, and quite as good at the shoring as myself; but he said it +would annoy his father to have him so near, and he wouldn't do it.” + +His boy's good will made the baronet fidget and swear to hide his +compunction. But his evil angel got the upper hand. + +“The rascal knew,” he cried, “that nothing would annoy me so much as +have him go back to his mire like the washed sow!” + +Perceiving Simon look dangerous, he turned with a hasty good-morning, +and made for his carriage, casting more than one uneasy glance over his +shoulder. But the blacksmith let him depart in peace. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIV. _THE BARONET'S FUNERAL_. + +It was about a year after Richard's return to his trade, when one +morning the doctor at Barset was roused by a groom, his horse all +speckled with foam, who, as soon as he had given his message, galloped +to the post-office, and telegraphed for a well-known London physician. A +little later, Richard received a telegram: “Father paralyzed. Will meet +first train. Wingfold.” + +With sad heart he obeyed the summons, and found Wingfold at the station. + +“I have just come from the house,” he said. “He is still insensible. +They tell me he came to himself once, just a little, and murmured +_Richard_, but has not spoken since.” + +“Let us go to him!” said Richard. + +“I fear they will try to prevent you from seeing him.” + +“They shall not find it easy.” + +“I have a trap outside.” + +“Come along.” + +They reached Mortgrange, and stopped at the lodge. Richard walked up to +the door. + +“How is my father?” he asked. + +“Much the same, sir, I believe.” + +“Is it true that he wanted to see me?” + +“I don't know, sir.” + +“Is he in his own room?” + +“Yes, sir; but, I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man, “I have my lady's +orders to admit no one!” + +While he spoke, Richard passed him, and went straight to his father's +room, which was on the ground-floor. He opened the door softly, and +entered. His father lay on the bed, with the Barset surgeon and the +London doctor standing over him. The latter looked round, saw him, and +came to him. + +“I gave orders that no one should be admitted,” he said, in a low stern +tone. + +“I understand my father wished to see me!” answered Richard. + +“He cannot see you.” + +“He may come to himself any moment!” + +“He will never come to himself,” returned the doctor. + +“Then why keep me out?” said Richard. + +The eyes of the dying man opened, and Richard received his last look. +Sir Wilton gave one sigh, and death was past. Whether life was come, God +only, and those who watched on the other side, knew. Lady Ann came in. + +“The good baronet is gone!” said the physician. + +She turned away. Her eyes glided over Richard as if she had never before +seen him. He went up to the bed, and she walked from the room. When +Richard came out, he found Wingfold where he had left him, and got into +the pony-carriage beside him. The parson drove off. + +“His tale is told,” said Richard, in a choking voice. “He did not speak, +and I cannot tell whether he knew me, but I had his last look, and that +is something. I would have been a good son to him if he had let me--at +least I would have tried to be.” + +He sat silent, thinking what he might have done for him. Perhaps he +would not have died if he had been with him, he thought. + +“It is best,” said Wingfold. “We cannot say anything would be best, but +we must say everything is best.” + +“I think I understand you,” said Richard. “But oh how I would have loved +him if he would have let me!” + +“And how you will love him!” said Wingfold, “for he will love you. They +are getting him ready to let you now. I think he is loving you in the +darkness. He had begun to love you long before he went. But he was the +slave of the nature he had enfeebled and corrupted. I hope endlessly for +him--though God only knows how long it may take, even after the change +is begun, to bring men like him back to their true selves.--But surely, +Richard,” he cried, bethinking himself, and pulling up his ponies, “your +right place is at Mortgrange--at least so long as what is left of your +father is lying in the house!” + +“Yes, no doubt I and I did think whether I ought not to assert myself, +and remain until my father's will was read; but I concluded it better to +avoid the possibility of anything unpleasant. I cannot of course yield +my right to be chief mourner. I think my father would not wish me to do +so.” + +“I am sure he would not.--Then, till the funeral, you will stay with +us!” concluded the parson, as he drove on. + +“No, I thank you,” answered Richard: “I must be at my grandfather's. I +will go there when I have seen Barbara.” + +On the day of the funeral, no one disputed Richard's right to the place +he took, and when it was over, he joined the company assembled to hear +the late baronet's will. It was dated ten years before, and gave the two +estates of Mortgrange and Cinqmer to his son, Arthur Lestrange There was +in it no allusion to the possible existence of a son by his first wife. +Richard rose. The lawyer rose also. + +“I am sorry, sir Richard,” he said, “that we can find no later will. +There ought to have been some provision for the support of the title.” + +“My father died suddenly,” answered Richard, “and did not know of my +existence until about five years ago.” + +“All I can say is, I am very sorry.” + +“Do not let it trouble you,” returned Richard. “It matters little to me; +I am independent.” + +“I am very glad to hear it. I had imagined it otherwise.” + +“A man with a good trade and a good education must be independent!” + +“Ah, I understand!--But your brother will, as a matter of course--. I +shall talk to him about it. The estate is quite equal to it.” + +“The estate shall not be burdened with me,” said Richard with a smile. +“I am the only one of the family able to do as he pleases.” + +“But the title, sir Richard!” + +“The title must look after itself. If I thought it in the smallest +degree dependent on money for its dignity, I would throw it in the dirt. +If it means anything, it means more than money, and can stand without +it. If it be an honour, please God, I shall keep it honourable. Whether +I shall set it over my shop, remains to be considered.--Good morning!” + +As he left the room, a servant met him with the message that lady Ann +wished to see him in the library. Cold as ever, but not colder than +always, she poked her long white hand at him. + +“This is awkward for you, Richard,” she said, “but more awkward still +for Arthur. Mortgrange is at your service until you find some employment +befitting your position. You must not forget what is due to the family. +It is a great pity you offended your father.” Richard was silent. + +“He left it therefore in my hands to do as I thought fit. Sir Wilton +did not die the rich man people imagined him, but I am ready to place a +thousand pounds at your disposal.” + +“I should be sorry to make the little he has left you so much less,” + answered Richard. + +“As you please,” returned her ladyship. + +“I should like to have just a word with my sister Theodora,” said +Richard. + +“I doubt if she will see you.--Miss Malliver, will you take Mr. Tuke to +the schoolroom, and then inquire whether Miss Lestrange is able to leave +her room. You will stay with her; she is far from well.--Perhaps you had +better go and inquire first. Mr. Tuke will wait you here.” + +Miss Malliver came from somewhere, and left the room. + +Richard felt very angry: was he not to see his father's daughter except +in the presence of that woman? But he said nothing. + +“There is just one thing,” resumed her ladyship, “upon which, if only +out of respect to the feelings of my late husband, I feel bound to +insist;--it is, that, while in this neighbourhood, you will be careful +as to what company you show yourself in. You will not, I trust, pretend +ignorance of my meaning, and cause me the pain of having to be more +explicit!” + +Richard was struck dumb with indignation--and remained dumb from the +feeling that he could not condescend to answer her as she deserved. Ere +he had half recovered himself, she had again resumed. + +“If the title were ceded to the property,” she said, as if talking to +herself, “it might be a matter for more material consideration.” + +“Did your ladyship address me?” said Richard. + +“If you choose to understand what I mean.--But I speak with too much +delicacy, I fear. Compensation it could be only by courtesy.--Suppose I +referred to the court of chancery my grave doubts of your story?” + +“My father has acknowledged me!” + +“And repudiated;--sent you from the house--left you to pursue your +trade--bequeathed you nothing! Everybody knows your father--my late +husband, I mean--would risk anything for my annoyance, though, thank +God, he dared not attempt to push injury beyond the grave!--he well knew +the danger of that! Had he really believed you his son, do you imagine +he would have left you penniless? Would he not have been rejoiced to +put you over Mr. Lestrange's head, if only to wring the heart of his +mother?” + +“The proofs that satisfied him remain.” + +“The testimony, that is, of those most interested in the result--whose +very case is a confession of felony!” + +“A confession, if you will, that my own aunt was the nurse that carried +me away--of which there are proofs.” + +“Has any one seen those proofs?” + +“My father has seen them, lady Ann.” + +“You mean sir Wilton?” + +“I do. He accepted them.” + +“Has he left any document to that effect?” + +“Not that I know of.” + +“Who presented those proofs, as you call them?” + +“I told sir Wilton where they had been hidden, and together we found +them.” + +“Where?” + +“In the room that was the nursery.” + +“Which you occupied for months while working at your trade in the house, +and for weeks again before sir Wilton dismissed you!” + +“Yes,” answered Richard, who saw very well what she was driving at, but +would not seem to understand before she had fully disclosed her intent. + +“And where you had opportunity to place what you chose at your +leisure!--Excuse me; I am only laying before you what counsel would lay +before the court.” + +“You wish me to understand, I suppose, that you regard me as an +impostor, and believe I put the things, for support of my aunt's +evidence, where my father and I found them!” + +“I do not say so. I merely endeavour to make you see how the court would +regard the affair--how much appearances would be against you. At the +same time, I confess I have all along had grave doubts of the story. +You, of course, may have been deceived as well as your father--I mean +the late baronet, my husband; but in any case, I will not admit you to +be what you call yourself, until you are declared such by the law of +the land. I will, however, make a proposal to you--and no ungenerous +one:--Pledge yourself to make no defence, if, for form's sake, legal +proceedings should be judged desirable, and in lieu of the possible +baronetcy--for I admit the bare possibility of the case, if tried, being +given against us--I will pay you five thousand pounds. It would cost +us less to try the case, no doubt, but the thing would at best be +disagreeable.--Understand I do not speak without advice!” + +“Plainly you do not!” assented Richard. “But,” he continued, “let me +place one thing before your ladyship: To do as you ask me, would be to +indorse your charge against my father, that he acknowledged me, that +is, he lied, to give you annoyance! That is enough. But I have the same +objection in respect of my uncle and aunt, of whom you propose to make +liars and conspirators!” + +He turned to the door. + +“You will consider it?” said her ladyship in her stateliest yet softest +tone. + +“I will. I shall continue to consider it the worst insult you could +have offered my father, your late husband. Thank God, he was my mother's +husband first!” + +“What am I to understand by that?” + +“Whatever your ladyship chooses, except that I will not hold any farther +communication with you on the matter.” + +“Then you mean to dispute the title?” + +“I decline to say what I mean or do not mean to do.” + +Lady Ann rose to ring the bell. + +Miss Malliver met Richard in the doorway. He turned. + +“I am going to bid Theodora good-bye,” he said. + +“You shall do no such thing!” cried her ladyship. + +Richard flew up the stair, and, believing Miss Malliver had not gone to +his sister, went straight to her room. + +The moment Theodora saw him, she sprang from the bed where she had lain +weeping, and threw herself into his arms. He was the only one who had +ever made her feel what a man might be to a woman! He told her he had +come to bid her good-bye. She looked wild. + +“But you're not going _really_--for altogether?” she said. + +“My dear sister, what else can I do? Nobody here wants me!” + +“Indeed, Richard, _I_ do!” + +“I know you do--and the time will come when you shall have me; but you +would not have me live where I am not loved!” + +“Richard!” she cried, with a burst of indignation, the first, I fancy, +she had ever felt, or at least given way to, “you are the only gentleman +in the family!” + +Richard laughed, and Theodora dried her eyes. Miss Malliver was near +enough to be able to report, and the poor girl had a bad time of it in +consequence. + +“I will not trouble Arthur,” said Richard. “Say good-bye to him for me, +and give him my love. Please tell him that, although all I had was my +father's yet, as between him and me, Miss Brown is mine, and I expect +him to send her to Wylder Hall. Good-bye again to my dear sister! +I leave a bit of my heart in the house, where I know it will not be +trampled on!” + +Theodora could not speak. Her only answer was another embrace, and they +parted. + +Richard went to see Barbara, and found her at the parsonage. + +“What an opportunity you have,” said Wingfold, “of maintaining before +the world the honour of work! The man who makes a thing exist that did +not exist, or who sets anything right that had gone wrong, must be more +worthy than he who only consumes what exists, or helps things to remain +wrong!” + +“But,” suggested Barbara, with her usual keenness, “are you not now +encouraging him to seek the praise of men? To seek it for a good thing, +is the more contemptible.” + +“There is little praise to be got from men for that,” said Wingfold; +“and I am sure Richard does not seek any. He would help men to see +that the man who serves his neighbour, is the man whom the Lord of the +universe honours. An idle man, or one busy only for himself, is like a +lump of refuse floating this way and that in the flux and reflux of the +sewer-tide of the world. Were Richard lord of lands it would be absurd +of him to give his life to bookbinding; that would be to desert his +neighbour on those lands; but what better can he do now than follow the +trade by which he may at once earn his living? To omit the question of +possibility,--suppose he read for the bar, would that bring him closer +to humanity? Would it be a diviner mode of life? Is it a more honourable +thing to win a cause--perhaps for the wrong man--than to preserve an old +and valuable book? Will a man rank higher in the kingdom that shall not +end, because he has again and again rendered unrighteousness triumphant? +Would Richard's mind be as free in chambers as in the workshop to search +into truth, or as keen to suspect its covert? Would he sit closer to the +well-springs of thought and aspiration in a barrister's library, than +among the books by which he wins his bread?” + +With eternity before them, and God at the head and the heart of the +universe, Richard and Barbara did not believe in separation any more +than in death. He in London and she at Wylder Hall, they were far more +together than most unparted pairs. + +Wingfold set himself to keep Barbara busy, giving her plenty to read and +plenty of work: her waiting should be no loss of time to her if he +could help it! Among other things, he set her to teach his boy where she +thought herself much too ignorant: he held, not only that to teach is +the best way to learn, but that the imperfect are the best teachers of +the imperfect. He thought this must be why the Lord seems to regard with +so much indifference the many falsehoods uttered of and for him. When +a man, he said, agonized to get into other hearts the thing dear to his +own, the false intellectual or even moral forms in which his ignorance +and the crudity of his understanding compelled him to embody it, would +not render its truth of none effect, but might, on the contrary, make +its reception possible where a truer presentation would stick fast in +the door-way. + +He made Richard promise to take no important step for a year without +first letting him know. He was anxious he should have nothing to undo +because of what the packet committed to his care might contain. + + + + +CHAPTER LXV. _THE PACKET_. + +The day so often in Wingfold's thought, arrived at last--the anniversary +of the death of sir Wilton. He rose early, his mind anxious, and his +heart troubled that his mind should be anxious, and set out for London +by the first train. Arrived; he sought at once the office of sir +Wilton's lawyer, and when at last Mr. Bell appeared, begged him to +witness the opening of the packet. Mr. Bell broke the seal himself, read +the baronet's statement of the request he had made to Wingfold, and then +opened the enclosed packet. + +“A most irregular proceeding!” he exclaimed--as well he might: his late +client had committed to the keeping of the clergyman of another parish, +the will signed and properly witnessed, which Mr. Bell had last drawn +up for him, and of which, as it was nowhere discoverable, he had not +doubted the destruction! Here it was, devising and bequeathing his whole +property, real and personal, exclusive only of certain legacies of small +account, to Richard Lestrange, formerly known as Richard Tuke, reputed +son of John and Jane Tuke, born Armour, but in reality sole son of +Wilton Arthur Lestrange, of Mortgrange and Cinqmer, Baronet, and Robina +Armour his wife, daughter of Simon Armour, Blacksmith, born in lawful +wedlock in the house of Mortgrange, in the year 18--!--and so worded, +at the request of sir Wilton, that even should the law declare him +supposititious, the property must yet be his! + +“This will be a terrible blow to that proud woman!” said Mr. Bell. “You +must prepare her for the shock!” + +“Prepare lady Ann!” exclaimed Wingfold. “Believe me, she is in no +danger! An earthquake would not move her.” + +“I must see her lawyer at once!” said Mr. Bell, rising. + +“Let me have the papers, please,” said Wingfold. “Sir Wilton did not +tell me to bring them to you. I must take them to sir Richard.” + +“Then you do not wish me to move in the matter?” + +“I shall advise sir Richard to put the affair in your hands; but he must +do it; I have not the power.” + +“You are very right. I shall be here till five o'clock.” + +“I hope to be with you long before that!” + +It took Wingfold an hour to find Richard. He heard the news without a +word, but his eyes flashed, and Wingfold knew he thought of Barbara and +his mother and the Mansons. Then his face clouded. + +“It will bring trouble on the rest of my father's family!” he said. + +“Not upon all of them,” returned Wingfold; “and you have it in your +power to temper the trouble. But I beg you will not be hastily generous, +and do what you may regret, finding it for the good of none.” + +“I will think well before I do anything,” answered Richard. “But there +may be another will yet!” + +“Of course there may! No one can tell. In the meantime we must be guided +by appearances. Come with me to Mr. Bell.” + +“I must see my mother first.” + +He found her ironing a shirt for him, and told her the news. She +received them quietly. So many changes had got both her and Richard into +a sober way of expecting. They went to Mr. Bell, and Richard begged him +to do what he judged necessary. Mr. Bell at once communicated with lady +Ann's lawyer, and requested him to inform her ladyship that sir Richard +would call upon her the next day. Mr. Wingfold accompanied him to +Mortgrange. Lady Ann received them with perfect coolness. + +“You are, I trust, aware of the cause of my visit, lady Ann?” said +Richard. + +“I am.” + +“May I ask what you propose to do?” + +“That, excuse me, is my affair. It lies with me to ask you what +provision you intend making for sir Wilton's family.” + +“Allow me, lady Ann, to take the lesson you have given me, and answer, +that is my affair.” + +She saw she had made a mistake. + +“For my part,” she returned, “I should not object to remaining in the +house, were I but assured that my daughters should be in no danger of +meeting improper persons.” + +“It would be no pleasure, lady Ann, to either of us to be so near the +other. Our ways of thinking are too much opposed. I venture to suggest +that you should occupy your jointure-house.” + +“I will do as I see fit.” + +“You must find another home.” Lady Ann left the room, and the next week +the house, betaking herself to her own, which was not far off, in the +park at Cinqmer, the smaller of the two estates. + +The week following, Richard went to see Arthur. + +“Now, Arthur!” he said, “let us be frank with each other! I am not your +enemy. I am bound to do the best I can for you all.” + +“When you thought the land was yours, I had a trade to fall back upon. +Now that the land proves mine, you have no trade, or other means of +making a livelihood. If you will be a brother, you will accept what I +offer: I will make over to you for your life-time, but without power +to devise it, this estate of Cinqmer, burdened with the payment of five +hundred a year to your sister Theodora till her marriage.” + +Arthur was glad of the gift, yet did not accept it graciously. The +disposition is no rare one that not only gives grudgingly, but receives +grudgingly. The man imagines he shields his independence by not seeming +pleased. To show yourself pleased is to confess obligation! Do not +manifest pleasure, do not acknowledge favour, and you keep your freedom +like a man! + +“I cannot see,” said Arthur, “--of course it is very kind of you, and +all that! you wouldn't have compliments bandied between brothers!--but +I should like to know why the land should not be mine to leave. I might +have children, you know!” + +“And I might have more children!” laughed Richard. “But that has nothing +to do with it. The thing is this: the land itself I could give out and +out, but the land has the people. God did not give us the land for our +own sakes only, but for theirs too. The men and women upon it are my +brothers and sisters, and I have to see to them. Now I know that you are +liked by our people, and that you have claims to be liked by them, and +therefore believe you will consider them as well as yourself or the +land--though at the same time I shall protect them with the terms of the +deed. But suppose at your death it should go to Percy! Should I not then +feel that I had betrayed my people, a very Judas of landlords? Never +fellow-creature of mine will I put in the danger of a scoundrel like +him!” + +“He is my brother!” + +“And mine. I know him; I was at Oxford with him! Not one foothold shall +he ever have on land of mine! When he wants to work, let him come to +me--not till then!” + +“You will not say that to my mother!” + +“I will say nothing to your mother.--Do you accept my offer?” + +“I will think over it.” + +“Do,” said Richard, and turned to go. + +“Will you not settle something on Victoria?” said Arthur. + +“We shall see what she turns out by the time she is of age! I don't want +to waste money!” + +“What do you mean by wasting money?” + +“Giving it where it will do no good.” + +“God gives to the bad as well as the good?” + +“It is one thing to give to the bad, and another to give where it will +do no good. God knows the endless result; I should know but the first +link of its chain. I must act by the knowledge granted me. God may give +money in punishment: should I dare do that?” + +“Well, you're quite beyond me!” + +“Never mind, then. What you and I have to do is to be friends, and work +together. You will find I mean well!” + +“I believe you do, Richard; but we don't somehow seem to be in the same +world.” + +“If we are true, that will not keep us apart. If we both work for the +good of the people, we must come together.” + +“To tell you the truth, Richard, knowing you had given me the land, I +could not put up with interference. I am afraid we should quarrel, and +then I should seem ungrateful.” + +“What would you say to our managing the estates together for a year or +two? Would not that be the way to understand each other?” + +“Perhaps. I must think about it.” + +“That is right. Only don't let us begin with suspicion. You did me more +than one kindness not knowing I was your brother! And you sent back Miss +Brown.” + +“That was mere honesty.” + +“Strictly considered, it was more. My father had a right to take the +mare from me, and at his death she came into your possession. I thank +you for sending her to Barbara.” + +Arthur turned away. + +“My dear fellow,” said Richard, “Barbara loved me when I was a +bookbinder, and promised to marry me thinking me base-born. I am sorry, +but there is no blame to either of us. I had my bad time then, and your +good time is, I trust, coming. I did nothing to bring about the change. +I did think once whether I had not better leave all to you, and keep +to my trade; but I saw that I had no right to do so, because duties +attended the property which I was better able for than you.” + +“I believe every word you say, Richard! You are nobler than I.” + + + + +CHAPTER LXVI. _BARBARA'S DREAM_. + +Mr. Wylder could not well object to sir Richard Lestrange on the ground +that his daughter had loved him before she or her father knew his +position the same he was coveting for her; and within two months they +were married. Lady Ann was invited but did not go to the wedding; +Arthur, Theodora, and Victoria did; Percy was not invited. + +Neither bride nor bridegroom seeing any sense in setting out on a +journey the moment they were free to be at home together, they went +straight from the church to Mortgrange. + +When they entered the hall which had so moved Richard's admiration the +first time he saw it, he stood for a moment lost in thought. When he +came to himself, Barbara had left him; but ere he had time to wonder, +such a burst of organ music filled the place as might have welcomed +one that had overcome the world. He stood entranced for a minute, then +hastened to the gallery, where he found Barbara at the instrument. + +“What!” he cried in astonishment; “you, Barbara! you play like that!” + +“I wanted to be worth something to you, Richard.” + +“Oh Barbara, you are a queen at giving! I was well named, for you were +coming! I _am_ Richard indeed!--oh, so rich!” + +In the evening they went out into the park. The moon was rising. The +sunlight was not quite gone. Her light mingled with the light that gave +it her. “Do you know that lovely passage in the Book of Baruch?” asked +Richard. + +“What book is that?” returned Barbara. “It can't be in the Bible, +surely?” + +“It is in the Apocrypha--which is to me very much in the Bible! I think +I can repeat it. I haven't a good memory, but some things stick fast.” + +But in the process of recalling it, Richard's thoughts wandered, and +Baruch was forgotten. + +“This dying of Apollo in the arms of Luna,” he said, “this melting +of the radiant god into his own pale shadow, always reminds me of the +poverty-stricken, wasted and sad, yet lovely Elysium of the pagans: so +little consolation did they gather from the thought of it, that they +longed to lay their bodies, not in the deep, cool, far-off shadow of +grove or cave, but by the ringing roadside, where live feet, in two +meeting, mingling, parting tides, ever came and went; where chariots +rushed past in hot haste, or moved stately by in jubilant procession; +where at night lonely forms would steal through the city of the silent, +with but the moon to see them go, bent on ghastly conference with witch +or enchanter; and--” + +“Where _are_ you going, Richard? Please take me with you. I feel as if I +were lost in a wood!” + +“What I meant to say,” replied Richard, with a little laugh, “was--how +different the moonlit shadow-land of those people from the sunny realm +of the radiant Christ! Jesus rose again because he was true, and death +had no part in him. This world's day is but the moonlight of his world. +The shadow-man, who knows neither whence he came nor whither he is +going, calls the upper world the house of the dead, being himself a +ghost that wanders in its caves, and knows neither the blowing of its +wind, the dashing of its waters, the shining of its sun, nor the glad +laughter of its inhabitants.” + +They wandered along, now talking, now silent, their two hearts lying +together in a great peace. + +The moon kept rising and brightening, slowly victorious over the pallid +light of the dead sun; till at last she lifted herself out of the +vaporous horizon-sea, ascended over the tree-tops, and went walking +through the unobstructed sky, mistress of the air, queen of the heavens, +lady of the eyes of men. Yet was she lady only because she beheld her +lord. She saw the light of her light, and told what she saw of him. + +“When the soul of man sees God, it shines!” said Richard. They reached +at length the spot where first they met in the moonlight. With one heart +they stopped and turned, and looked each in the other's moonlit eyes. +Barbara spoke first. + +“Now,” she said, “tell me what Baruch says.” + +“Ah, yes, Baruch! He was the prophet Jeremiah's friend and amanuensis. +It was the moon made me think of him. I believe I can give you the +passage word for word, as it stands in the English Bible. + +“'But he that knoweth all things knoweth her,'--that is, Wisdom--'and +hath found her out with his understanding: he that prepared the earth +for evermore hath filled it with four-footed beasts: he that sendeth +forth light, and it goeth, calleth it again, and it obeyeth him with +fear. The stars shined in their watches, and rejoiced: when he calleth +them, they say, Here we be; and so with cheerfulness they showed light +unto him that made them. This is our God, and there shall none other be +accounted of in comparison of him.'” + +“That is beautiful!” cried Barbara. “'They said, Here we be! And +so--'--What is it?” + +“'And so with cheerfulness they showed light unto him that made them.'” + +“I will read every word of Baruch!” said Barbara. “Is there much of +him?” + +“No; very little.” + +A silence followed. Then again Barbara spoke, and she clung a little +closer to her husband. + +“I want to tell you something that came to me one night when we were in +London,” she said. “It was a miserable time that--before I found you up +in the orchestra there! and then hell became purgatory, for there was +hope in it. I saw so many miserable things! I seemed always to come +upon the miserable things. It was as if my eyes were made only to see +miserable things--bad things and suffering everywhere. The terrible city +was full of them. I longed to help, but had to wait for you to set me +free. You had gone from my knowledge, and I was very sad, seeing nothing +around me but a waste of dreariness. I kept asking God to give me +patience, and not let me fancy myself alone. But the days were dismal, +and the balls and dinners frightful. I seemed in a world without air. +The girls were so silly, the men so inane, and the things they said so +mawkish and colourless! Their compliments sickened me so, that I was +just hungry to hide myself. But at last came what I want to tell you. + +“One morning, after what seemed a long night's dreamless sleep, I awoke; +but it was much too early to rise; so I lay thinking--or more truly, +I hope, being thought into, as Mr. Wingfold says. Many of the most +beautiful things I had read, scenes of our Lord's life on earth, and +thoughts of the Father, came and went. I had no desire to sleep again, +or any feeling of drowsiness; but in the midst of fully conscious +thought, found myself in some other place, of which I only knew that +there was firm ground under my feet, and a soft white radiance of light +about me. The remembrance came to me afterwards, of branches of trees +spreading high overhead, through which I saw the sky: but at the time I +seemed not to take notice of what was around me. I was leaning against a +form tall and grand, clothed from the shoulders to the ground in a +black robe, full, and soft, and fine. It lay in thickly gathered +folds, touched to whiteness in the radiant light, all along the arms +encircling, without at first touching me. + +“With sweet content my eyes went in and out of those manifold radiant +lines, feeling, though they were but parts of his dress, yet they were +of himself; for I knew the form to be that of the heavenly Father, +but felt no trembling fear, no sense of painful awe--only a deep, deep +worshipping, an unutterable love and confidence. 'Oh Father!' I said, +not aloud, but low into the folds of his garment. Scarcely had I +breathed the words, when 'My child!' came whispered, and I knew his head +was bent toward me, and I felt his arms close round my shoulders, and +the folds of his garment enwrap me, and with a soft sweep, fall behind +me to the ground. Delight held me still for a while, and then I looked +up to seek his face; but I could not see past his breast. His shoulders +rose far above my upreaching hands. I clasped them together, and face +and hands rested near his heart, for my head came not much above his +waist. + +“And now came the most wonderful part of my dream. As I thus rested +against his heart, _I seemed to see into it_; and mine was filled with +loving wonder, and an utterly blessed feeling of home, to the very core. +I was _at home_--with my Father! I looked, as it seemed, into a space +illimitable and fathomless, and yet a warm light as from a hearth-fire +shone and played in ruddy glow, as upon confining walls. And I saw, +there gathered, all human hearts. I saw them--yet I saw no forms; they +_were_ there--and yet they _would be_ there. To my waking reason, the +words sound like nonsense, and perplex me; but the thing did not perplex +me at all. With light beyond that of faith, for it was of absolute +certainty, clear as bodily vision, but of a different nature, I saw +them. But this part of my dream, the most lovely of all, I can find no +words to describe; nor can I even recall to my own mind the half of what +I felt. I only know that something was given me then, some spiritual +apprehension, to be again withdrawn, but to be given to us all, I +believe, some day, out of his infinite love, and withdrawn no more. +Every heart that had ever ached, or longed, or wandered, I knew was +there, folded warm and soft, safe and glad. And it seemed in my dream +that to know this was the crown of all my bliss--yes, even more than +to be myself in my Father's arms. Awake, the thought of multitude had +always oppressed my mind; it did not then. From the comfort and joy it +gave me to see them there, I seemed then first to know how my own heart +had ached for them. + +“Then tears began to run from my eyes--but easily, with no pain of the +world in them. They flowed like a gentle stream--_into the heart of +God_, whose depths were open to my gaze. The blessedness of those tears +was beyond words. It was all true then! That heart was our home! + +“Then I felt that I was being gently, oh, so gently, put away. The folds +of his robe which I held in my hands, were being slowly drawn from them; +and the gladness of my weeping changed to longing entreaty. 'Oh Father! +Father!' I cried; but I saw only his grand gracious form, all blurred +and indistinct through the veil of my blinding tears, slowly receding, +slowly fading--and I awoke. + +“My tears were flowing now with the old earth-pain in them, with keenest +disappointment and longing. _To have been there and to have come back_, +was the misery. But it did not last long. The glad thought awoke that I +_had_ the dream--a precious thing never to be lost while memory +lasted; a thing which nothing but its realization could ever equal in +preciousness. I rose glad and strong, to serve with newer love, with +quicker hand and readier foot, the hearts around me.” + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of There and Back, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THERE AND BACK *** + +***** This file should be named 8879-0.txt or 8879-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/7/8879/ + +Produced by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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